The Lexicon: Plot Snorkacks
by Carumati
Summary: My one-shot plot bunnies. The range: everything. Warnings inside. Summaries in bio. Enjoy!
1. From the Mold

People loose their morality for the sake of war. For most, it's not a matter of why or how, but when. For Harry, it was the day Hermione was killed. What happened? What are the circumstances? What next?

Author's Note: AU. No romance. I don't own Harry Potter and I don't know British Slang. This is an experimental style in First Person. I got the idea from _Rorschach's Blot__**.**_

Warnings: Gore, Death, Dark, Morality issues, Intentional bad Latin, Long ramblings, Semi-OCs, AU, Slight spoilers.

**From the Mold**

(It took a long time to fall from grace.)

**Hogwarts**

The Headmaster stared at me over his half moon spectacles, "She died as a Gryffindor, we should all be proud of her." I couldn't meet his gaze, but stared at the instruments on his desk that hiccupped smoke in irregular patterns into the air, twisting and swirling.

Half of me wanted to ask him whether the only proper way to die was as a Gryffindor and that if one had to choose over living as a Slytherin and dying as a Gryffindor, whether they should choose the latter. But I didn't say anything, refused to say anything; my lip hurts from biting down hard but it was either that or to shoot hexes at the venerable leader. Who cares about being noble and honorable when your enemies take any advantage, especially stabbing your back once you turn, to bring you down? Honor and valor are Gryffindor traits and to me are dead, had long been dead. The parchment in my hand tells the reason why.

The news of Hermione's death came as a shock to all of us: the brightest witch of the century, who had so many aspirations for her future, fought into a corner and felled? It seemed nigh impossible and unfair, but the information was in my hand. I guess that after open-war with Voldemort and his Death Eaters for more than two years, having it blown to massive proportions after sixth year; a close friend's death was an eventuality. For two years, I thought that my purpose was very clear, almost like a cookbook or Snape's instructions on the blackboard to brew a potion- I was to defend the common people, stun or disable Voldemort's supporters, and then sent them via floo or portkey to the DMLE. Never kill or maim, it was expected for a light wizard who needs to maintain a good public image.

But it seems like I need to personally rewrite the procedures.

After beating a pretty rude and hasty retreat from Dumbledore, I hurriedly walked to the Common Room and sank into one of the armchairs by the fireplace, and stared at the flames and thought and thought.

I had read the loopy handwriting for the third time today of one of the aurors' reports (if you sniff really hard, you can smell the alcoholism in the auror's breath). Hermione's cause of death was bravery and courage. There had been a raid in Diagon Alley in the evening, at the exact time Hermione had arrived. With the barrage of spells, the enemies trapped her in a small shop containing potion ingredients with ten other children. For five minutes, as the Death Eaters worked on disabling the wards, she neutralized seven of the oppositions by use of stunners and hexes. She defended the children, ages six through thirteen, from spells that burned, maimed, and killed, even though she knew that the kids were from Dark families.

…Even though the children's parents were attacking on the other side of the wall, Hermione turned a blind eye. She didn't care of their parentage but did the 'Gryffindor thing': calling everyone equal under the laws of Magic. People believe that everything adheres to a certain code, not realizing that the rules to the fight of survival are more guidelines. Those same people call Hermione's actions noble. She could have… she could have… But she wouldn't have.

I call it stupid. I knew, before I heard her death, that the ploy was a trap. But it seemed like everyone on the Light Side didn't realize the implications till Hermione fell and the Death Eaters' children returned to their parents, safe and sound. They walked over her dead body and into the arms of their fathers and mothers, laughing and chattering happily. Some gave her an uneasy look, others kicked her head.

Where were the aurors? Was the Ministry of Magic finally beginning to fall due to its internal corruption? Was it finally succumbing to Voldemort?

"Hey mate," A hand shook my shoulder.

"Hey Ron." I replied. The scroll report was plucked out of my hands, sounds of rustling parchment, the crackling from the fire, and Ron's breaths as they become uneven and deep…

"Was it worth it?" He asked hoarsely.

Was it? For a bunch of Slytherin children, who even now make subtle hints of pureblood superiority with sneers and taunts? I shook my head. My parents would like to have a few words with you, Potter, they're eager to know you better. It's a good thing that mudblood filth is gone; I heard that she was killed most horribly. Don't cry, don't cry, if you want, father can make the pain go away. They think they're winning and so have right over us, but that isn't right. The urge to strangle the brats grows stronger as the days go by. We don't hurt them in Hogwarts because we believe that children can be reformed, but I'm having doubts. Everyone has to follow Dumbledore's orders.

Ron exhaled, "She's like a lioness in a den, defending her cubs." A wistful tone in his words, "I wanted to ask her to marry me, since we've been dating for years, was going to ask her this Saturday, sure that she was going to say yes. But now-"

She's dead. Hermione's dead.

She was going to get married. She had a life in front of her with so much promise. She's dead. She was only eighteen.

Ron shoved the scroll back into my hands and abruptly walked away with hitching breaths as he walked up the stairs to his private dorm. The door slammed shut, I was alone again.

I tossed the scroll into the fire, knowing that I'm going to garner Dumbledore's disapproval later but could summon no more strength to care. This has been going on too long and Voldemort's army have just found a new tactic in warfare- taking advantage of our 'Lightness' or morality. The children of Death Eaters are still allowed to attend Hogwarts, even though it's a known Order of the Phoenix main base, because they know that we don't have the heart to attack the innocents. (Are they innocent?) No, wait, Moody once suggested at a meeting to… but he's dead too, transfigured arrow to the temple. The Daily Prophet supports us as the noble, honorable group, but I find that it doesn't matter, good publicity or bad, no one cares when people are dropping like flies.

Dumbledore is so adamant about taking the high road, no murders, no killings, no accidental killing, and no dark or even gray curses. I think he's getting really senile, because there is no way we can win this war at the rate we're going. In fact, after two years of keeping to this pact, the public is starting to call us the weak-hearted side. I suspect it's because of all the negative press that affected him in fifth year, something that passed by unnoticed by the rest of us that made him desiring the heroic spotlight. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore…

I remember fifth year, after Sirius's death, Dumbledore had said, "Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human-"

"_THEN--I--DON'T--WANT--TO--BE--HUMAN!"_

**Diagon Alley**

"Potter!" I spun around, from one to three, bloody hell, an ambush. There were Death Eaters in the immediate vicinity and more were running onto the scene from the junction between Diagon and Knockturn. A trap, I have long given up on the aurors' help, the Order guards who were suppose to trail me have disappeared, people were still rushing to safety, taking shelter in the buildings. "_Avada Kedavra!"_

I transfigured the ground up into a stone wall which immediately shattered at the blast. Behind me was a yell, "_Axelo!_"

I ducked under the purple spell and pointed to Dolohov, "_Confrigo Maxima Omnia_!" The explosion sent a massive shock wave. Spin around, "_Carpe Retractum_." I whispered, pulling, judging from his nose and jaw, Goyle Senior, "_quod_ _hostes es, me tegum precor_," and watched in satisfaction as he took six curses that were meant for me. Curses given by Voldemort's marked men have no effect on other marked men. Sort of soul magic in the Dark Mark, I'm not too clear on the details. With the conjured rope, I pulled Goyle behind me.

I can't leave the battle now- to retreat means a loss. The Death Eaters would take the spoils of the battle, whether it is hostages or valuables or fear; I couldn't allow that to happen. It shouldn't take long for the Order members to regroup. "_Expello viscus!" _I heard, _"Ebullis!_" I kept running till I got out of the boundaries of the immediate wards and apparated to the archway entrance of a consulting firm. Thank Merlin that even though the anti-apparation wards prevent anyone from enter or leaving with that tell-tale pop, one can apparate within the wards. I turned around to give them enough time to realize where I still was.

"_Stupefy in Bombardas Maximas novem ad hostes_!" And I slammed the door behind me, activated the emergency wards, mind spinning with spells that Moody literally beat into me, constant vigilance and all.

**Standing Fortress/ Consulting Firm**

Peaking out the curtains, outside the Death Eaters tried to attack the shelter with curses; others were trying to break down the protection wards.

"Come out Potter and we might make this painless!" sinister laughter, similar to what I hear in my nightmares. Something wet dripped down my forehead; I touched my scar, blood. I rubbed it between my fingers and smeared some onto the window sill, some blood magic offering to the wards, maybe they'll last longer, and ten minutes I reckoned at most, the most I can do. By my scar hasn't hurt yet, either that or that I'm so used to its burning sensation that I can't feel anything. Voldemort isn't here, shouldn't be here, from what I dreamt of, he was trying to recruit dark wizards from Brazil with Malfoy to aid his cause. I snorted, as if, it's a reputable fact that Brazillian wizards appreciate the golden ratio on all human faces, looking part-snake will not help diplomacy.

First things first though, I tapped the walls with my wand, "_Cave Inimicum_." The stones responded- wards were up, I added a heavy-weight and an impervious charm to the curtains and drew them in. Turning around… "_Lumos_," I froze when I saw my audience.

I recognized Avery's nose, and the diluted features of Malfoy's branch family, Nott's cold eyes, and other visible characteristics of my enemies- all these I saw in the faces of children, ages ranging from six to thirteen at most. Some I see at Hogwarts. The children knew who I was, I knew who they were, "Hello," I greeted them with as much amiability as one could hold on top of a nail. They all stared back with expressionless faces.

"You're Harry Potter aren't you?" A girl stepped forward, nine I guessed, a close relative to Yaxley, "Daddy said that you torture purebloods and are killing the magic in us."

I grimaced. …Well, I guess they can put it that way. I prefer to say that I remove a threat called pureblood supremacy from the society. Pureblood supremacy: it brings a bad taste to the tongue. That's what all these kids believe, either now or when they grow up- that as a half-blood, I cease to become a true magic-wielding wizard. Some might already know, judging by the hostile looks from the older kids. I blandly smiled at the group in general, "Are your parents out there?"

"Yep!" The youngest looking boy said proudly, puffing his chest in a show of familial pride, "Da's out there. He told me he's saving the world from filthy people."

The leader of the group, a Nott, yanked on the boy's hair and hissed, "Idiot, the orders are to stay quiet and act helpless, Prince." The message would have been too low for normal ears to catch, but I had placed a temporary sensory enhancement before rushing off to the raid. The message was useful in two ways. One was that even if the first time, Hermione's death, was unintentional, this was the thoroughly planned out. Every child here knew one another, the body language showed that they were used to each other, they were future Slytherins… no, not all Slytherins are bad.

It's just that it takes more and more time to convince myself of that as the years go by. Prince? The little brat was Snape's relative? They do share the same jaw, hair, and eyes. But Snape's on our side and Princes were estranged ever since Eileen Prince married the muggle and the only Prince family left only has the name, the Potion-finesse gene had been diluted and mixed heavily with copious amounts of Bole blood. But now was not the time to be reviewing the family tree lessons I had with Regulus Black's portrait.

The children aren't good at this sort of secrecy, untrained, unchallenged, they have no idea. They have no fucking idea that they already messed up their chances.

I fought down the urge to bare my teeth at them by pressing my lips hard together, "Is that so?"

The door behind shook till it rocked the hinges and the ground. A big wave of magic pushed my hair forward like a wind and caused some of the others to step back. Damn, the first layer of the wards were broken, there wasn't any time to waste. Nott must have read my thoughts because his wrist immediately flicked out to reveal his wand holster but with years of experience, I had my wand and the incantation ready before he could take the proper dueling stance, "_Expelliarmus_!" His wand sailed cleanly through the air and into my outstretched hand.

"Give it back, it's mine." I inwardly snorted and enjoyed the panicked expression on his face, eyes so wide that the typical half-lidded eyes showed the entire pupil and then some, his face looked like a wind was constantly blowing his skin back and tight. Merlin, I hope I didn't look that stringy as a thirteen year old. He lunged, hands outstretched, but I was prepared.

"_Incarcerous omnia_." I intoned, drawing out ropes for every individual member and watching my spell work critically to make sure that they won't escape. Instantly, protest erupted in the form of high pitch whines, pre-puberty. Teen-angst and child-angst worked itself into a hum of never ending complaints. They started screaming with words that no child has the right of knowing at such an age when I smiled benevolently at them and waved my wand, "_Silencio_." And there it was- blissful quiet, good for thinking.

The buzz of magic coming from the walls and the doors mean that the second layer of wards was fighting to stabilize. That would mean, uh, five more minutes? Right, so what could be done?

…But isn't the answer obvious? The question was: do I have the guts to do it? Hermione didn't and she ended up six feet under, deciding to take the high-road, the goddamn 'light' road that ended sixty feet up. Metaphorically, she fell to her death from a cliff of heroism. Can I do it? Is it not Gryffindor enough?

The foundations of the buildings shook beneath my feet. The older children shot my victorious glances and mouthed out their insults. In an illusion, the words came out of their mouths, "Come out Potter! Save us some time and we'll make it painless! No Cruciatus curse like last time when you screamed!" There was more jeering laughter. I closed my eyes to try and refocus as the memory of my first day at Hogwarts rushed back.

"You could be great you know. It's all here in your head. And Slytherin can help you on your way to greatness, there's no doubt about that. No?" said the Sorting Hat back then, all those years ago. Good ol' Sorting Hat, unbiased and neutral. Slytherin wasn't dark; it was ambition, getting things done, having the drive to finish, and no matter what, and with a certain amount of style.

At sometime in the middle of war, I guess the realization might have hit them when they planned for their next raid, after the enemies' personality analysis reports were completed, the Death Eaters realized that the fault in the Light side was the 'lightness'. They self sacrificed for their friends, families, and enemies. Now that I think about it, there had been lots of occasions- like that time when Voldemort leveled St. Mungos to the ground, it was the Order who had to risk their lives to go in and evacuate light, neutral, and dark wizards alike. So many other scenarios, do we seem like pushovers? Are we still pushovers? If Professor McGonagall, or even Ron, found themselves in my situation, would they be willing to do what I'm planning right now?

Did Voldemort's men stupidly expect that I could be trusted with their children because of my so called hero-complex? Did they think that little kids with wands and training wands can stand against me? How confident they must be to force their kids into their plans, risking their lives. Inbreeding has definitely taken its toll on the parents.

With that thought, I levitated all of my loving companions into the next room and closed the door, save for Nott.

I removed the Silencing charm off of Nott and tilted his head back with my wand under his chin, "Come. Let's go have a walk outside," I loosened his leg bindings enough to make sure that he can hobble with little steps and poked him with his own wand to herd him to the door, sometimes my frustration pushed him hard enough to make him stumble. I noted with slight curiosity that his wand was thicker than mine but lighter, "Is your wand made of balsa wood?" I grabbed the back of his collar and shoved him in front of me, tapping him over the head with my wand, "_quod_ _hostes es, me tegum precor_," and examined my handiwork with satisfaction. Nott has no idea that he just became a human shield, a spell magnet.

"Yew." He sneered. Yew- Voldemort's wand.

"You wish." I muttered, giving said wand an experimental twirl at the door, no response. I snapped the wand over my knee and threw the pieces to the ground, eliciting a gasp of shock from the boy as the magical backlash washed over him. I heard from Hermione that for the owner of the wand, the experience is strangely euphoric.

"What did you just you?! Is that… You mud-." He yelled with panic and fury laced into every word before I wordlessly cleansed his mouth with soap.

"Language," I chided, smiling. "What would your father say? He's out there right?"

And at that moment, it clicked for the thirteen year old like a bulb lighting up above his head. It reminded me of the time I read a textbook on a radical psychology theory that said that the last moments before death is the only time a person will show his true self, bare and naked to the world. There are those who resign to their fate and those who beg, plead, and grovel to survive. The author had argued with and against himself on which type was more good and preferable, but didn't settle on one decision. I watched with grim satisfaction that the boy's eyes widen in realization and the pupils dilated. Strange that, the human psyche, which runs on a series of mental switches, conveying a perfect balance as events all around constantly threatens to shift the weights. The boy is in shock, he's taking it rather well for someone of his stature, but I can't know for sure.

"Father told me that you wouldn't dare to kill us. You're Dumbledore's Golden Boy." He whispered, fear draining his face of blood, making it look like he's thinner than he should be.

"Well, we can't always fit into that mold can we?" I replied, patting him on the head. His eyes dimmed considerably, like small black coals staring out into the world like those who had attained a sort of wisdom that pays a price to visualize. Like a servant whom his master has finally broken from rebellion and insolence, Nott's head tilted a fraction towards the ground, showing perfect submissiveness. But his back hunched in gloom of an animal about to be taken to the slaughter houses or a prisoner awaiting his execution. How perceptive.

"Come out Potter! Come out Potter before we burn this house down!"

Nott turned immobile; I can't read his body language anymore. Trying to assure him a bit and pretending that I couldn't hear those in the Alley, I gently clasped onto his shoulder, "In fact, I'll let you in on a secret," I leaned down and whispered to his ear, "The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin." Before he could reply, I kicked open the door and faced the light and the surprisingly lack of curses directed towards me and boldly walked out. The smudge on my glasses did not work well with the sun's glare.

There were more Death Eaters than what I last saw, around fifteen, give or take a few. I faced them with as much dignity as I could muster. Wolves: the lot of them. All were in perfect health and ready for a fight, or a hunt as it seemed they expected. They faltered when they saw the first face that came out, causing me to feel pleasantly surprised that they haven't just shot off the Killing curse as a tripwire response. Their faces contorted into lines and ridges.

I heard, "Mudblood scum, what are you doing?!"

"Who is that? Nott's son?"

"Second son, what is he doing here?" and multiple variations of the questions which lacked something important. The ingredient had been missing from these people, making them all sound like clones of one another, no inflexion of the voice, no cause to allow them to humanly care. They changed into monsters.

My eardrums of beating with too much blood for me to discern the different voices, my palms got slightly sweaty, my heart beat faster and harder, I swallowed. I'm betting all my chips into this gamble. The sounds blended together into one drum beat and the hum of magic that makes its appearance at the corner of everything magical. But vision hasn't left me, I saw their faces freeze, Nott senior's especially. I noted the father's countenance and color and noted that yes, they really do look alike, cheekbones, hair, eyes, muscle. I placed Nott in front of me, held onto his collar, and jabbed my wand at the base of his head.

I cleared my throat, "Surrender yourselves to the Ministry and the aurors or else I'll kill him," wishing that the statement wasn't shakily said.

"What? How dare you!"

"He won't do it! Disregard the threat, he'll push aside Nott right at the moment we shoot the Killing curse at hi-"

"-ut him down! I order you to-"

How dare you? Yes, how dare I? How can I? I'm so terribly sorry. I'll put him down before you and prostrate at your legs for forgiveness as the Pain curse runs its course through my body as it had done time and time before. I'll listen to every order you give me and die at the hands of Voldemort, allowing him to finally take tyrannical control over Wizarding Britain and use muggles as circus animals and slaves.

I heard outright denial and rejection that I could ever do such a thing, the words passed through from one ear to the other, but I stared hard at Nott senior, after all, is this not his son? The father might or might not deal with his son; it might not matter much since there is Theodore Nott from my year and every pureblood family must ensures the survival of one male heir and only one male heir. But I received no response from the middle-aged man but an incline of his head and a sneer, as if asking me, "Can you really do it? Go on, we don't care." Except that no spells were fired towards me… I would have used his son as a shield, I really would've. And Nott senior was a father. I'll probably never figure out how close the parental bond is, but I hope it hurts when it snaps.

In the midst of many battles, constantly, I wonder why Dumbledore insisted on the high road, no fatal harm or intentional killings to the opposition. I tried so hard to find loopholes, straddling the border and getting away with as much as I could; sometimes I get caught, bringing the old man's wrath upon me in ways that… I believe what I'm doing is right. I wonder why Dumbledore won't let us lower to their level to the point that I actively question and debate with him on the consequences of our actions. Only Moody supported my views, but he's gone. (There's no legal help to our side, the ministry is useless. Where are the aurors?) Hermione was my opposite and I love her as a sister, but we were just so different. And Ron took her side since she demanded support; I frankly don't think he cared at all. I told you so, I repeatedly said, but no one listens to me because they say that I'm turning Dark.

But now time was running short and I can't bet forever that they won't impatiently send a curse to weave under the boy. There are holes in a human shield after all. I realized that they don't believe that I will do it, that I don't have the heart and cruelty to and to them; they'll bid their time since they have all the time in the world through the stalemate. Little baby Potter can't possibly go out of his way to fatally harm others, it wasn't in his blood. I scanned their faces again, confident and self-assured that they know me better than I do, though that's all about to change.

I wanted to say goodbye to the boy in front of me, he was nothing more than collateral damage, the unfortunate one who was picked at random. But he wasn't shaking in fear, but resembled a stone statue and I'm curious to see his face. I don't even know his first name. I also wanted to say sorry, but don't think that he would understand. He's silent and aware of what's to come, silent boldness. I wonder if the Sorting Hat told him that he would do well in Gryffindor. Probably not.

My next actions will influence the future in ways that I have no hope of conceiving. The Light side is bound by rules and rules are meant to be broken: they're going to hate me after I do this, I just know it. Who will stay by me in the aftermath? This sort of circumstances can't be hushed up, though there are no normal civilians in public right now, I know they're in their shelters and hovels, observing my every move. What will the Golden Boy do now?

The Death Eaters were too fooled to think that this plan will work with me. It makes me question their intelligence, but this is War and Death, and they do funny things to people when their exposure is high. And so I summoned the familiar warmth in my magical core, aware that I was crying. For you Hermione, I'm so sorry that I killed the Gryffindor within me, but for you, in your memory, I must.

(In front of me, I finally heard the boy speak since we came out, "Father, please…" But no one else heard him. Last words were never important.)

"_Reducto!_" I blinked as wet and chunky bits of brain matter splattered over my face and shirt. There was only a bloody stump of a neck, white bone and sputtering blood, an eyeball clinging to hair leisurely rolled down the steps. My hand was red at the place where I was still holding onto the collar. I let go. Slowly, leg-locked and with no support, the body tilted forward and fell to the ground in a soft thud, displacing dirt and dust.

I can hear nothing but the blood pounding in my head. There were so much red, stains, sins, violence. The world reeled.

I closed the door behind me and went to the room where the children are, looking for my next suitable hostage. They gave me hateful glares and smirks, still under the silencing charm and I mirrored their expressions, feeling a sense of power that comes from knowing who's ignorant. But it didn't matter, once they figure out what is going on, some will be like Nott and accept the inevitable, others will beg and grovel. Moments before death are where they are bare to the world.

Morals are dead in war.


	2. The Dog and the Owl

Author's Note- I don't own Harry Potter. Enjoy!

The first time Sirius meets Hedwig in Third Year at the Owlery, he realizes that reincarnation is possible.

***

The Dog and the Owl

***

Taking on his Grim form is more preferable than wandering around as a human. With the Ministry after him, the Dementors searching for his soul signature, he's surprised that he even made it this far with his soul intact. Also, Grims don't get nightmares; something about death doesn't affect them, creatures of hell and all that rot. The rumors are true: Animagi, if in their non-human forms for an extended period of time, can develop the mentality and sometimes even gaining the abilities of their animals. Though in the wilderness, when he's in his human form to regain his power of reasoning and sensibility, he dreams of the Rat Traitor slipping away from his grasp. On a good night, he revisits his farce of a trial.

But that could be pushed behind, there's a new road of opportunity ahead. But his family has a notorious history for holding onto grudges and being rather viscous. And the fact remains that he's been repeatedly questioning his sanity, or perhaps lack thereof, after his glorious escape from Azkaban. But didn't therapists say that those who question their sanity are in fact sane and those who believe that they are fine are perfectly insane? Ugh, Moony was better at this subject.

No matter what, he's not going back there. The prison was the basic eat, sit, brood, sleep routine, punctuated with insults hurled at him from an assuredly insane cousin, with the Dementors gliding by whenever inmates got too happy. Bellatrix Lestrange: dear Morgana, he dreads the day when society reacquaints with that madwoman. As a hobby, he used to jeer and mockingly coo at her through the bars, "Que Bella!" Like his mother used to do when they were little, it always managed to throw her into frenzy.

"I'll kill you, you little mutt! Or! Just like those Blood-traitors, I'll turn you into the feral---." By then, he would have tuned her out and she would be shaking the bars with her bony arms.

Azkaban was hell on earth, the moment he was thrown into his cell, he buried into his animal mind and stayed there, occasionally coming out to eat and converse with his fellow inmates, who seemed delighted and a bit puzzled as to why he was here. He had repeatedly hit himself over the head for not being there for his godson. How much of Harry's life did he miss?

As a Grim, he stepped into an empty clearing, the Gamekeeper's hut at his right. At the distance, there were waving tentacles of the squid in the lake. He sat down, whined and scratched his ear with his back leg before shaking himself. Ahead was Hogwarts, the great castle, home of the once famed and feared Marauders.

***

Her home at the castle can be quite boring with no one attending her for days at a time. She wished that her chick would be more sociable, send out more letters. In her spare time, she daydreams of her past in a never ending cycle---

She was born on November 1, 1981 among her nest mates with a lucidity that puzzled her owner. She had broken through her egg shell with a fierce determination, with a lingering feeling of love so powerful that it scared her. When she sleeps, she dreams of a man with messy dark hair, hazel eyes, and glasses and her heart breaks. For almost eleven years, she perched high in the rafters, refusing to be bought by anyone, feeling dirty when she was examined.

Except on that day, that special day, she had gazed with curiosity at a young boy that was accompanied by a larger-than-life man. The boy looked like the man from her dreams, maybe he has some answers, and she had flown down to a lower perch to take a closer look and with slight disappointment, noted that the boy's eyes were green, not hazel. But another image flashed by: a woman in a reflection with red hair and green eyes… and then a human chick in a bed with a small tuff of black hair and green eyes just like…

She had hooted mournfully. The boy had looked up at her and pointed towards her. The owner of the establishment was surprised when she allowed herself to be escorted down. Once on the boy's shoulders, she gave him a cursory glance, this boy was to be her chick. She gently nipped his ear and allowed him to usher her into a cage.

***

It's Filch and that thrice damned cat of his! He cringed as he sprinted down the halls. Regular pets, he can stand, but Mrs. Norris, who he was sure should have kneeled over and died by now, might recognize his scent. There were pretty strong rumors in his time about the bond between a squib and his or her animal. Arabella Figg had her part-kneazles. Marius Black had his legendary affinity with acromantulas. There was no way on Earth that he was going to take any chances with the caretaker of Hogwarts.

All he wanted to do was see his godson and take away the rat. He shuddered to think how long the traitor had been so close to Harry, how vulnerable the little boy must be. Wormtail could change at anytime and slit his throat and no one can do a thing about it. And it bothered him even more that still, nobody has a clue.

He padded down the corridors, passing the portraits that tutted at his speed and fanned themselves, and up the stairs, feeling sure that he could loose the feline in the smaller halls. "Now, Mrs. Norris, what is this about an old bad dog?" A loud meow, he fought the urge to growl and regretted not shaking the cat in his jaws back in sixth year when he had the chance. He redoubled his efforts, turned right, and up another staircase, looking for an empty classroom. Filch is an old man, it takes him longer to climb up. He took another set of stairs, and another, and another, until it stopped at two doors. He darted in, shifted into human form, and slammed the door behind him.

After making sure that he won't be caught, he relaxed- safe.

"Hoot hoot."

Or not.

***

She wasn't like other owls that she met at the owlery. Her intelligence was coming back to her, little by little as the years came and gone; the other owls stayed the same, and they spoke in broken sentences, just barely capable of coherent thought. Besides delivering mail, the life of an owl was truly boring. Unfortunately, owls can't sigh. Perched low, she wondered how her chick was going.

Just then, a black shadow rushed through the door, sending her fellow owls into a titzy, it was a large black dog that instantly transformed into a shaggy man. There were soft mews and voices on the other side of the door but the man held rattling doorknob tightly until the mews died off and the voices muttered about a locked door and a false lead.

She hooted twice in greeting. The man spun around and she examined him- blue eyes, black hair, and aristocratic features. She remembered him as a younger boy with more arrogance on his face. She had once hit him over the head with a square object, screeching obscenities while he tried to charm her into not giving him a detention which didn't work. His eyes were bloodshot and shocked, like he was seeing a ghost of sorts, and maybe he was. There was silence on both sides. Currently, he looked gaunt and starved, nearly emaciated, his hair was dirty and wild, he was unshaved. He looked like hell.

The man shifted back into his dog form, hairy and unkempt, and sniffed her at her stomach, her neck, and her head, all which she sat through with a certain amount of dignity. There were many minutes of nosing, sniffing, and prodding with his forehead under the watchful eye of the other curious owls. He barked softly and happily and gave a big, slobbery kiss to her left side that forced her face up. She hissed at him and flapped her wings in place, trying to look threatening, but the dog stuck out his tongue again out the side, leaned in, and licked the other side of her face, long, wet, and hard.

By the end of the reunion, she was dripping with saliva and he had white feathers dotting in a stars-in-the-night pattern over his pelt.

***

Grims can smell magic auras as well as regular scents, both of which were highly unique to each individual, a gift that he didn't fully appreciate till now.

He pondered on the back of Buckbeak the Hippogriff, feeling happy and young again as the creature banked to the left and headed to the direction of the mountains. What an excellent year this had been: he escaped prison, instilled the fear of him into the Traitor (the fact that Pettigrew escaped is a mere small black mark, he'll bid his time), met his godson and his friends, and witnessed the power of reincarnation. It was a secret that will be between him and her, who managed, in her owl-sort of way, to communicate to him that she doesn't want him to tell others. She really didn't have to worry though. The mere idea is so ludicrous that if he even mentioned to it in passing to anyone, they'll send him immediately to St. Mungo's.

What were the chances of a dead mother reincarnated into an animal that will later serve as a pet to her son?


	3. Wordless Disaster

Harry says good-bye to his twin who's going off to defeat Voldemort.

Author's Note: Oooh snap! Forgive me; I just had to get one of the cliché plot devices out there. _Is it a Right or Wrong Boy-Who-Lived fic? In the end, does it really matter?_ Neglected Harry Potter! Smart Harry Potter!

Warnings: Sarcasm and Stupidity and Arrogance and Slight Out of Character

***

**Wordless Disaster**

*******

"I do not think we brought enough jars." Professor Snape remarked softly, after finding his voice. The boy looked over at the other's unusual lack of decorum and noted that his Potion professor looked like he wanted to rush up and hug the basilisk corpse in joy. The stoicism had left his face and floated into the other secret passages that were whispered about in the legends of Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. The preservation wards on the stone walls ensured that the giant snake was not rotting. Just imagine: once upon a time, Slytherin worked here in his cauldron, creating potions with a delicate hand that all future heads of the Slytherin house seemed to possess. Huh, the famed, hidden lair is nothing more than a glorified potions lab.

"Funny, I thought we overestimated, since I only remembered the size based upon memories of my second year," The other noted. Comprehension graced his features, "… the skin back there, that's it right?"

The older man hummed a small tune, stroking the scales reverently and examining the massive, multi-forked tongue, "Every part of a snake has potion, specifically medicinal properties, even the discarded skin. It's one of the reasons why Greeks of Antiquity had their god wield a caduceus." The younger struggled to remember his lessons; the caduceus was a traditional medical symbol, a staff with usually two entwined serpents circling around, usually in a double-helix. Snape continued his impromptu lecture while absentmindedly stroking the eyelid, "Most potions used at St. Mungo's contain a part of a specific magical snake that corresponds to the part on the human being. For example, potions for cataracts need a part of an aspis' pupil."

The boy allowed Snape another few minutes of basking in his personal heaven, take out the scavenging tools and knives, and began to cut, "Slytherin had more than a few tomes about potions, some were out of date but others are lost arts, no ward traps or curses. I took all of them in my sixth year and moved it to my personal vault at Gringotts. I'll lend some to you for your perusal." He shrugged modestly and inspected his nails, "Once we work out a deal."

Snape glared up suspiciously from his vantage point, "And what if the books are coded with something that I have no hope to decrypt, such as parsel-script?"

Amusement showed on the Ravenclaw's face, "Parseltongue is nothing more than Parseltongue, professor. Snakes cannot write. I can assure you that I have no problem reading them, once I learned a bit of the Old English script."

The man relented, wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose as he straightened, "You already take private tutoring lessons with me in Potions that can lead you to a Mastery within the year you graduate from this school, what more do you want, Potter?"

"Actually, it's Black, Hadrian Corvus Black." Hadrian cocked his head to the right and grinned as the professor noticeably blanched at his new name. "You've been gone too long on your touring lectures, you missed quite a bit."

"Black?" Snape parroted in disbelief, "Has that mutt suddenly reverted back to his pureblood roots? Granted he didn't change your first name into Antinous but your middle name is now a constellation." He peered at the green-eyed boy, "I can only be thankful that he didn't have you be Hadrian Sirius Black, since I hazard that he's now your secondary blood-father as well as godfather. When did you initiate the blood-adoption and magical lineage ritual? And why wasn't I informed?"

Hadrian loosened his blue tie, "I guess it started right after sixth year. That summer, Mr. Potter disowned me from the family: not the blasting off the tapestry that Sirius went through with Madame Black, as that wasn't legal, but full out, no bars disownment." He smiled ruefully, "thankfully my skills of Transfiguration did not stem from my previous family line, much to Mr. Potter's disappointment." To prove a point, with a small flick of his wand, a loose stone morphed into a modest stool which he sat upon, "Did you remember, sir? You were there."

Yes, Potter Senior, in one of his usual fits and disagreements with his second son over something trivial about Har- Hadrian resisting to befriend with the Weasleys for however many times and practicing Grey and Dark magic, had summoned his power to erase all evidence of any Harry James Potter. The boy had gasped as the protective familial guard escaped him as he became Harry, just Harry. Potter Senior held a grim face, Ethan Oliver Potter looked on with near glee and morbid curiosity, and Lily, who was now a mere shadow of her former, vibrant self, stood behind her husband with a pale visage, but said nothing. Snape, after witnessing the incident, had grabbed the distraught boy by the arm, led him out of the boundary wards, and apparated to Spinnet's End where the former Potter child was administered Calming Draughts.

Sometimes, Snape wondered if Potter Senior would be less brash if the Marauders were still close, as they had been in school. Peter, the traitor, was a lost cause. Lupin had, unfortunately, left after a stint at Hogwarts teaching DADA, after he realized when they studied the Boy-Who-Lived, had an irrational fear of werewolves. The man tried so hard, for years, to dispel the prejudice… Snape winced; Lupin more or less gave up on the Potter family once Ethan revealed to the whole entire school his furry secret towards the end of the boy's third year, starting a near enactment of new laws concerning the werewolf population control. Rumors had flourished about a midnight romp under the full-moon and the professor's transformation. That had not been pleasant. The werewolf is currently in Greyback's pack, still sending an occasional letter concerning his good health to Black.

And now Black, who had always doted on the celebrity brat as the next Marauder had apparently turned around and adopted and named Hadrian as his heir. That must have been the reason behind the mysterious duel between the men last week. "Why would the mutt do that? It certainly would not make the brat happy."

"Don't call my brother a brat," Hadrian mockingly chastised and then adopted a serious thinking pose, "I really don't know. Sirius always liked Ethan more than me, even as toddlers, even though he was _my _godfather. I think. I think it was the fact that I was disowned that made him help me, I think Mr. Potter had hit too close to home, as so when Sirius found out when he returned from his expedition through the Andes… I could imagine he wasn't too happy with the news." Yes, the mutt certainly would not; he might even be ecstatic to find something that he can relate to with his godson. "His exact words were, 'Nobody deserves to have their roots stripped from them. Family lineage is not a privilege, it's like air: we need it to identify ourselves to a group, our first group. Harry, listen to me, I may be your father's best friend, I may be a Marauder, but I am a Black, first and foremost. I don't hold modern political stances but I uphold the traditions, rituals, and ways. I know that I haven't really been a true godfather to you… come with me, I might be able to help you… with your permission.' …It was a brash action, but Sirius has always been a Gryffindor."

Dropping the topic, the potion master resumed his work, making shallow cuts into the skin in perfect squares and using a long broad knife to slice off only the top layer of skin. "Such a beautiful creature, I wonder why Dumbledore has not hired workers to at least clean up and clear out the chamber, especially when he has access to this place."

"Don't know," Hadrian began to make incisions at his side of the basilisk, "Since Ethan is also able to speak Parseltongue, I half expected this place to not exist, after so many years." He pulled down a flap of sinewy flesh and hit bone, "I think that since Parseltongue is the only Slytherin trait Ethan has, he denies it with all his heart. So in order to keep his denial, he avoids this place like the Plague. And in this case, I doubt Ethan or his parents are able to be swayed by the Headmaster in this regard. But enough about Parseltongue, I want to talk about you owing me. I think that I would like some extra DADA classes, not to gain Mastery, but to at least pass my NEWTs and survive."

"Ah yes, the Potter twins, two sides of the same coin." Snape muttered, rolling his eyes as he imitated the conversations in the school, "One is excellent at Potions and Transfiguration and the other is excellent at Defense against the Dark Arts and Charms. You two really are sometimes the opposite sides of the same coin."

The green-eyed boy smiled grimly as he twisted a jar shut and placed it off to the side. "Dumbledore believed that too. The day after I became a Black, he called me and the Potter clan into his office, prepared to do the Potentia Transfert Fratrem Ritual, but I didn't have the Potter magic or blood anymore but Black, which is inherently dark." For the Greater Good and all that shit. A pause to remember the memories of the pain at his magic core as it tried to escape him, was sucked by Ethan's body, then declared incompatible and have all his power returned. Dumbledore's face was white with fury, as were his once-parents were white with fear of their benevolent leader.

"Didn't you resist?"

"Yeah, but what good would it have done? Albus Dumbledore? Boy-Who-Lived? The famed Potters? I knew it wasn't going to work, why delay the inevitable? The really amusing part was that with such a ritual, the Head of the Family, Sirius Black, was notified by the family magic, bypassed the wards at Hogwarts and apparated directly behind me. Boy, I didn't understand the meaning of Black Rage until I saw Sirius blow a gasket. Wanted to pull me out of this school and send me off to another School, he was even considering Durmstrang, but I convinced him otherwise. Too much politics will be involved." Snape raised an eyebrow at the years of friendship destroyed on a single action.

Besides the politics, Hadrian would also be loosing a fair amount of friends if he left Hogwarts, the thought continued, with the amount of allies his apprentice is amassing: the entire Ravenclaw House has always been a tightly knit study group, been close to the Hufflepuffs as tradition, been closer to his own snakes than any other non-Slytherin, and been amiable and tolerant of the Gryffindors, ultimate neutrality. All the cultivated friends were also neutral. It would be a shame to loose years of hard work. Snape tapped some fat bits into a jar and grudgingly said, "Alright, I'll help you in DADA. I hope you'll benefit; if it hadn't been for your work ethic, I think you would have had a 'D' in your OWL exam."

"I'm also piss poor at Charms, never came naturally." Hadrian replied cheerfully, "Total shame to my housemates, Anthony told me so. It was only because of Nott and Carrow that I didn't get a 'T' at DADA."

That comment received a snort in return, "Nott and Carrow? Sometimes I think you should have been sorted into my house, Black."

The younger hummed thoughtfully, "Maybe, at my sorting, the Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I said no because I knew my family wouldn't be happy. The Hat then suggested Gryffindor, but I didn't want to be with Ethan for seven straight years, so it settled on Ravenclaw, though I wasn't as smart as the norm in that house." He wrenched out a rib and blew on it softly, "I think I did well there, none-the-less."

There was no response. The pair worked in comfortable silence, as they usually do when working in the Slytherin Head's private potion lab. When about half of the containers were filled, a red flash, Fawkes, appeared into the chamber bearing a message for the boy-wizard. The scroll was caught mid air and the fastening undone, deft hands unrolled and he read softly, "Looks like a summons to Dumbledore's office. This time he promised no coercion."

"Does it say the reason?"

"Yeah, Ethan's leaving today to battle with the Dark Lord, Gryffindor Style. No behind-the-scenes plans, no back-up, golden nobility, face to face. Tomorrow is Imbolc, purification magic will augment and Riddle won't be able to resist his chance to kill the one who destroyed him. That man probably doesn't think that a minor magical boost will be able to help his nemesis." Feeling relief that it wasn't him and worry that it was for his brother, his face clearly portrayed his conflicting emotions. Is it right to feel brotherly worry or to be utterly apathetic? "I'm to say farewell."

Ethan Potter most likely doesn't even know what the significance of Imbolc is: the potion master sneered disdainfully. "Honestly, I think the final battle should have been delayed till Eostre. Has the war been going on that badly to make Dumbledore act quickly?" The man mused, thankful that his duties to his apprentice and to his commissions for potions took him away from his role as a double-agent. "Would you like me to come with you?"

He heard deep, shuddering breaths and some minutes of silence and then a shaky voice, "Nah, I'm fine; don't need you to hold my hand… It's just my… ex-parents. In fact, I'll go right now." Hadrian replied with a tone that sounded like he was trying to convince himself, "Fawkes, are you to carry me?" The bird trilled a short melody and extended a leg. With one last word, "Don't forget to gather the firewood for tomorrow's celebrations at the dungeons," red wings extended and flapped, the boy and the bird rose and disappeared in a burst of flame.

Snape huffed in amused exasperation and wondered about his apprentice. That boy is still forgives too easily, it took years before he finally began to stop hoping for his parents' love, and it took years before his hate and love to his twin brother evened out into a precarious balance. The Ravenclaw cares for Ethan but at the same time wants nothing to do with him, as everything bad in his life that has happened always points to Ethan. Hadrian still cares. Dumbledore wants Hadrian to care. The man went back to work. Something is going to happen soon, his instinct call for it.

Hadrian landed in the middle of the room with a pureblood-bred grace that his twin can possibly never achieve, surrounded by small floating flames that instantly vaporized. His hands went up to dust off the ashes off his shoulders. He then extended a silent thanks to Fawkes, who chirruped and glided to his metal perch.

In front of the firebird, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat behind a grandly decorated mahogany desk that on top of it laid many rare and functioning magical instuments with his hands clasped and his eyes twinkling and glittering with an inward light. "Harry, my boy," he smiled. The room, colorful as ever, had two bookshelves full of rare books, desks, a trunk, and many decorations. At the corner of his eye, Hadrian saw the beginnings of the previous Headmasters' portraits on the back wall.

The muttered reply, "its Hadrian, sir," was muffled by Ethan's affronted drawl. Fawkes sang a single soft note.

"What is _he_ doing here?" The other twin turned to the red-headed woman standing behind him and complained, "Mum, I don't want him here."

Hadrian scrutinized his ex-parents for a while, noting the circles under their eyes and the near possessiveness they held onto their remaining son. Dumbledore said, "Yes, but Ethan, don't you want one last heartfelt goodbye to a brother?" Nobody dared, or in Hadrian's case, bothered, to correct him.

Ethan gave his mirror twin a skeptical glance while almost visibly thinking things through. "Sure," After two minutes, he relented, causing Hadrian to raise an eyebrow in mild surprise and his parents to sputter, "But I want it to be done in private."

"But, Ethan dear, are you sure you don't want us-." Lily Potter started, clasping her hands in front of her. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"Yes mum, I'm sure." The Boy-Who-Lived impatiently tugged on the other's arm, as if expecting his whims to be obeyed without question. Hadrian Black followed.

The twins left the room and walked some ways from the gargoyle and any portraits. The walls were bare and looked muddy, a small wind came around a corridor. Ethan waved his wand and muttered a spell to cast a privacy and silence ward around them and looked around for ghosts before giving a sigh of relief. The other waited patiently for what seems to be a request and his prediction was sound. Ethan looked up with a determined and pleading look, desperation hidden in the green eyes, begging, and "Please trade places with me."

Whatever the Black heir was expecting, this wasn't it. "Pardon?"

"Just look at this from a logical, Ravenclaw sort of view. You've always been smarter and more magical than me, just plain better than me." The Boy-Who-Lived fiddled with the handle of his wand, Holly and Phoenix feather from Fawkes, "our 'rents have been training me for three years but I don't think I'm powerful enough to defeat… the You-Know-Who." A glance over to the side, the stone gargoyle looked curious but disappointed. "But it won't work. Hell, we both know I won't be able to kill him. But I think you can, we can just switch clothes, I'll act like you and you'll act like me. How about it?"

He got a frown as a response, "Dan," the baby nickname was used in a mocking tone, "There is a prophecy, remember? It was told to you that you are the only one destined to defeat the Dark Lord. Dumbledore said-."

"Forget about Dumbledore!" Ethan furiously whispered, "His words don't make sense to me anymore. He tells me that in order to defeat him, I must first die and then only can he have the possibility of being dead by my hand. I say, 'bloody hell.' What is that suppose to mean? I'm fated to die? And he trains me anyways and tells me that I'll figure it out once I'm there!"

His twin sighed in exasperation, kneading the skin between his eyes, "The Prophecy said that you are the Chosen One-"

"And about this Chosen One," Ethan interrupted again, waving his arms to show emphasis. Lines under his eyes showed his exhaustion, the typical arrogant stance was gone. "Who knows if it's you? Nobody was there the night he came 'cept for the two of us. But we can't remember? What if the Chosen One is you and this is all a big mistake that has lasted for seventeen years?" His words carried weight that would be surprising to hear in a boy of his nature. The wards around them hummed.

And there was a reason for this near blasphemy-thought. The proverbial snowball had started to roll about a month before Dumbledore attempted to strip Hadrian's magic to offer to Ethan, at a seminar given by the Boy-Who-Lived himself. The occasion was at the Great Hall in the evening after supper, the purpose was to cater to the fans and devout who wanted to bask in the boy's light. From ages eleven to seventeen, many wizards and witches raised their hands and asked questions on his personal life, his aspirations, and how he would be defeating the Dark Lord. The last question was given in abundance, as people more and more worried about the slow manipulation that crept its tendrils into high places of the Wizarding Britain, including the Ministry. It was unspoken in the newspapers, but everyone knew it was going on. The answer was overly done, Ethan detailed a (phony, but only to those who knew which were his immediate family and the Hogwarts staff) magnificent plan that touched upon the ultimate battle between Light and Dark, purification spells, powerful foci, etc.

But then there was a second year Gryffindor, a girl, muggle-born, who asked in a childish breath, "But how do we know _you_ will defeat the You-Know-Who?"

"Well, it's in the Prophecy that I'm the only one who can. It's either me or him and it's destiny, you know. That's why I've been getting specially trained for this occasion."

Another girl, fourth year Ravenclaw, twisted a ringlet of black curls around her finger, "I heard about the Prophecy, but how do we know it's _you_? The Chosen One is born on the end of July of that year. I researched: Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, and you. The Chosen One is marked by the You-Know-Who. That's Harry and you. So how do we know it's not your twin?"

Before regaining his composure, puffing up his chest, and shooting a glare at his brother who was engrossed in his Potions essay, everyone saw Ethan visibly falter, "Dumbledore told me about that." He shook a finger and repeated information that only the Potter family and Dumbledore knew since that day on Halloween, "After V-Voldemort was destroyed, the Headmaster had come; he sensed concentrated Dark magic in my scar and not in Harry's. That's why there is the conclusion that _I _am the Prophecy child."

A Slytherin boy, Draco Malfoy, who sat at the corner with the group of friends of skeptics sneered and yelled loudly, "Oh yeah? Well my father works at the Ministry and she heard from a family friend, today, who is an Unspeakable that Harry Potter's scar was pouring out raw magic. It was a secret that Headmaster Dumbledore tried to cover up. Pure, unadulterated, raw magic."

Whispers came from all sides of the room: raw magic? That's thought to be impossible, a legend- real, raw magic? The type that Lady Magic gives from her hand to you, untouched, unharnessed? The pureblood children started giving interesting looks to the Ravenclaw Potter, who looked up once he sensed the stares aimed at his way. The twin to the Boy-Who-Lived received the gift of pure magic, unbelievable. Well, now that you think about it, Harry is the brighter, more magically adept brother. (He's also more polite too, not arrogant at all unlike Ethan who likes to push the younger kids down the stairs and make it look like an accident.) Ethan had always worked for average grades, only struggling at Transfigurations and failing dismally at Potions. But Harry is brilliant… But Ethan had always ended up in these adventures, is he looking for trouble? Is he a fake?

Sensing an uprising, Mr. and Mrs. Potter took drastic action and announced that the seminar was going to end early, never looking at Harry once as they ushered the students out of the Hall. Dumbledore's eyes had stopped twinkling but still remained seated. Students demanded for more answers but got none, Harry had easily disappeared into the shadows. Students began owling their parents. Draco Malfoy retreated back into his group of Slytherins, his job at creating doubt was finished. The gathering of skeptics dispersed. Tomorrow, Malfoy will be transferred to Durmstrang for the remainder of his education. Tomorrow the Daily Prophet will bring out a front page news article on the Chosen One. Tomorrow, there will be chaos.

Ethan stared straight ahead, taking in the new information presented to him.

Was it all wrong? Was he not the Boy-Who-Lived?

Hadrian Corvus Black, previously Harry James Potter, looked up at the ceiling and tried to prepare for his response that was eagerly awaited for. He pondered the unfairness of life and Fate's hand in all things magical. Sure, no one was absolutely positive that the Chosen One was Ethan, but Dumbledore said that it was him, and if any at all, that was the only words that Hadrian believed that came out of Dumbledore's mouth. Unlike his estranged family who metaphorically worshipped the ground the aged wizard walks on. After the fateful seminar, Hadrian's views didn't change.

As a recap: The Supreme Mugwump had cited his proof from his mage sight, that there were lingering traces of dark magic around both twins, but it was Ethan Potter who sported the lightning bolt shaped scar on the left side of his brow that reeked of Dark Magic. The lightning bolt shaped scar that Hadrian wore under usually a hat, bandana, or makeup, was on the right side of his brow, and apparently, according to that Slytherin boy, after the Dark Lord's attack, had been spitting off raw magic. Obviously, the Dark Lord had fired off the Killing curse at him. It wasn't too hard to draw a conclusion. Was Dumbledore wrong?

Well that's the problem, the Headmaster can't be wrong. At this point in time, no body, not even Hadrian, can afford it. There were so many reasons why he can't be the Prophecy Child, so many. Hadrian idly fingered his own wand kept up his sleeve, Cypress and Phoenix feather from Fawkes, picked the first and, to him, the most important reason and spoke softly , "Tell me, dear brother, who was it that our mother and father talked to less in the household?"

"You, but that's not the po-."

The smile that said, 'Shut up,' as benignly as one can, shut the other up. "Who was it that our mother and father forget to feed from time to time?"

Ethan Potter paused, the memories blurred in his head, "You." He slowly said.

"And who was it that lived in the attic with a cot? That didn't attend galas and balls and had to stay with a babysitter at home for sometimes days when the rest of the family was gone? That got mistaken for his brother by normal citizens off the street? That received no recognition for his hard work and dedication to his studies?"

One blink, "You."

"Who was it that didn't get special training, attention, or favor from the Hogwarts staff? That got bullied by his twin brother and his friends but was always blamed for starting the fights? That had his own friends leave him to associate with his twin brother? That had to work his arse off in school to get somewhere in the world as opposed to expecting good marks? That was even forgotten, for a time, by his own godfather? That was blasted and disowned from the family lineage by his dear father?" The sentences slowly grew in volume, soft but more, as one might describe it, omniscient and reverberating, a definite accusing tone.

The memories were there: "Harry, look at your brother, see how he gets along with the Weasleys?" "Harry, don't practice Dark Magic, Ethan is practicing only Light, why don't you join him?" "Harry, your gift is nice, but I know that you took it from her. I know, you say that it was won, but it's wrong. Give it back. Look at Ethan's homemade card, isn't it wonderful?" The memories are numerous, admonishing, scolding.

"…You."

And it wasn't that Harry's childhood is bad or abusive, it was just that being looked over repeatedly can do work a bitterness into a kid's psyche, especially when the kid, raised in darkness, sees his brother, who is his mirror image, receive all the love and glow of pride. ("Mummy, Daddy, why won't you love me?") Maybe Lily and James, once upon a time, treasured both sons equally. Now, Hadrian can't see it and has eventually trained himself not to see it in case he is mistaken, like past experiences, and is hurt, again and again.

"And who is the Boy-Who-Lived?" The Black heir said with a caustic smile.

"…Me."

"And who is it that shall go off to defeat Lord Voldemort?"

There was no answer. Ethan looked down as Hadrian patted his back and soothed the tension with small circles. Unspoken words, 'you've been raised to this moment your entire childhood, don't back down now. Even if it's not you, it should be you, so just play pretend.' There was a perverse understanding between them: it was a tradeoff of lives, one can't have the perfect life forever, and all good things must come to an end. And the balance had to be maintained or else, even if the wrong person goes off to save the world. Neither twin will mention the potential disaster that might follow, as is agreed.

The brother of the Boy-Who-Lived is adamant of receiving his dues in life that he had slaved over. His story has not been pleasant to say the least, but he had endured it with all his heart and believed that it would get better, and it shall. By a Wizard's Oath, he will make sure it would get better even if society falls. He has no care of this world, if the Dark Lord should win, the Black heir will allow himself to get swept by the mass exodus that is sure to follow. The other magical communities will take steps to make sure that Voldemort's power will not go past the boundaries of Britain. Professor Snape is spending more and more time outside of the country and one day will not come back. Most of his friends and allies have already moved out and more are preparing to do so, and when the last of his friends and family leave, there will be nothing for him here to cherish.

He does not love his family and he is sure that his family does not love him.

With a flick of his wand, Hadrian took down the wards around them, muttered a "Goodbye," to his brother's stiffened state, and headed back into the direction of Myrtle's bathroom without looking back.


	4. False Love

Sixteen year old Harry James Potter realizes that something is horribly wrong when he finds a strong love charm with a single strand of hair burning away under his pillow.

Author's Note: This is one hundred percent of my suspicions as to what really happened in the _Half-Blood Prince_. I feel that J.K. Rowling forced Harry and Ginny to hook up in the sixth book. The 'monster roaring in Harry's stomach as he watched Dean's arms around Ginny' was my clear clue that something must be wrong with Harry. The pairing never work out for me I found no proof of it in fifth year and then in sixth year, it pops up. In truth, you might have figured out, I like Harry and Luna to get together, especially after that heartwarming meeting between them at the end of fifth year where she was able to relate to him about loved ones. Harry and Ginny: just… *sigh.* …And yes, I believe that Severus's reaction is appropriate in this situation.

Warnings: Diverging from the sixth book so the events in the book might not be in order, Very obvious hints that hit you across the face multiple times, Language.

-xXx-

**False Love**

-xXx-

There had been, since the beginning of the year, something nagging at the edges of Harry's brain that he never really acknowledged due to his inability to figure out what was the problem and his growing belief that this was normal in ordinary wizards and witches. And what could you say to the people around you, "Excuse me, but can you spare a few minutes of your time to figure out what's wrong with me? You see, I have this itch in my head that's rather bothersome when I'm trying to study or do homework and I have no clue as to what it is."? Not likely. So he had brushed off the feeling and went on with his daily business as much as he dared.

And then, in the middle of a certain night, he woke up smelling the slightest, so slight that if he could've slept through without knowing if he hadn't been awoken by Ron's single loud snort, smell of a slight burn. Thinking that someone had possibly booby-trapped his bed, or worse, sent him a gift with the intention of harming him, he backpedaled away, got tangled in his sheets and landed on the floor with a loud thud and "Oof!" His roommates didn't even stir.

After regaining his bearings from his near instinctual actions, he gave his bed a complete pat down, lifting the mattress to check the underside, checking under the bed, between his sheets, in the curtains. But the source of the smell, which reminded him of incense, wasn't in those places. A few minutes later, he found in his bed a coil of gold and copper, remains of rosemary, ash-winder eggs (the fact that he recognized the exact species is a long story from fifth year that encompasses a tale concerning Hagrid, his hut, fire, parseltongue and goat cheese), powdered moonstone, and the quick burning strands of hair. For once in his life, Harry Potter thanked Merlin that Lavender and Parvati had once forced him to try out their "Make your Crush take this quiz: What girl is suited for him?" quiz handed out by Witches Weekly. At the bottom of the page was a small ad for love charms, guaranteeing the 'finest rosemary and the most healthful ashwinder eggs'.

The burning hair with smoke that rose in lazy spirals: whoever gave him the charm had activated it not long ago. With his paranoia in the highest since the end of fourth year, snapped out his wand and vanished the offending item, nearly vanishing his bed sheets as well.

It sounded like Ron and Seamus were in a competition to see who could snore the loudest.

The problem was that he could not go to anyone for help. Hermione and Ron were caught up in their own problems; their unresolved sexual tension was getting to a point that was so bloody annoying that he wanted to scream, "Hermione doesn't like Krum! Ron doesn't like Lavender!" and shove them into the infamous empty classroom on the first floor and lock the door. Nor, he was quite sure, could he go to any of his female acquaintances for aid… nor could he go to any of his male companions, now that he thinks about it. Everyone is a suspect. Without enough evidence, he couldn't go to any of the adults for help; they would just chalk his problems to his incessant fear and, in Snape's case, "the arrogant brat's desire for more attention than what he truly needs."

So he kept a watch to his surroundings, nothing too obvious, mind you, but enough to observe and eye suspiciously at anyone who acted… off. Oh sure, his investigation was thrown off a bit when Vane sent out the potion-laced Chocolate Cauldrons, but he later realized that the fifth year's actions weren't subtle enough. Then his attentions turned toward Luna, until he realized that her weirdness was an innate personality. Nobody noticed the change in him, for which he was grateful. Slowly, since he was not the most alert person to start out with, he began to notice a couple of things.

_She_ was always near.

Not obvious at first, but the times that _she_ had been at his side, even if it looked involuntary, began to stack up until it was too much to be a coincidence: walking down the halls, chatting up one another in the common room, eating together at meal times. Even with _her _boyfriend at _her_ side, it was too unusual that _she_ seemed to always be snogging him whenever he approaches.

His suspicions were small, since he actually knew _her_ rather well, and the suspicions didn't start to grow until he had a heated discussion with Hermione concerning the Half-Blood Prince. After the second or third Potion lesson, his friend had gone to the library, snatching up any leads that might allow her to reach the explanation about the mysterious friend in the aged Potions text and she had come out victorious. At least, she thought she came out victorious.

"Look Harry," she had said impatiently at the common room, "the Half-Blood Prince obviously came from the Family Prince." She jabbed her finger at a name, "Eileen Prince. This book is old enough to belong to her. You shouldn't listen to her. The Prince's come from a long line of purebloods that are notoriously good at Potions and some specialize in Dark Potions."

He had easily brushed off her speech, assuming that it was merely her jealousy that she was channeling, "You're just assuming that Potions are a family trait." They walked out of Slughorn's classroom, he feeling incredibly smug that he had finally bested his genius friend at a practical assignment.

"They are!" She cried frustratingly, "To some extent, they are. Most Princes are potion masters or mistresses, as are Greengrasses, Abbots, and Prewetts."

He had frozen at her last sentence in a perfect interpretation of a standing leg-locker curse but Hermione, bless her, didn't notice and continued on her rant as he developed eyes that were glazed in terror.

And from that moment on, he had observed _her_ out of the corner of his eye, whether _she_ was on the opposite of the Hall, room, or corridor, _she_ was just _always there and it's seriously beginning to creep him out._

Obsession? Perhaps so.

With Hermione's lecture in his head, he headed to the library to look up any detection spells that will find laced magic in his meals. With Madame Pince's help, he hauled a leather bound book on house charms to the back corner and to a dusty table. He sneezed as he whipped through the pages, fingers running down the Table of Contents, half muttering, "Nutriment: enlargement, Nutriment: illusions, Nutriment: transfigurations, Nutriment: detections… page five-seven-three."

A plan was put into play with the objective that no one would notice anything odd about his using magic at the tables. That dinner, he jovially discussed with Hermione the Transfiguration class they had today, "---And for wandless incantations, I think that it's more based on will than the actual incantation spoken in the mind. You have to will, force, an ordinary object to transform." Out of sight from the Professors at the Staff table, he tapped his plate and muttered under his breath like a ventriloquist, "deprehens." With skill learned from his cheating in his practical classes in DADA with Snape, his voice was so soft that nobody could hear.

Nothing. Hermione folded her arms and raised an eyebrow challengingly, "Try not to do that here. You know that's not allowed." She admonished.

He grinned at her and this time tapped his goblet, "deprehens." Yes, a sign! Just like the book said. His wand grew cold, make no mistake there was a change in temperature but one that was so miniscule that his drink was probably laced one out of one hundred thousand parts. He lifted the goblet and pretended to drink, but took a deep breath: the scent of Treacle Tarts, a polished broom handle, and cool spring. They were smells that attracted him. To his audience, it seemed as though he had failed in his endeavor to transfigure his meal twice. He gave a sheepish grin to his friends.

Ron guffawed through his chicken. Dean snickered behind his napkin.

He saw that _she_ was demurely eating _her_ meat with her fork and knife, using small delicate bites that showed off _her_ gracefulness and _her_ womanly lips that wantonly called…

Fuck.

His sheepish grin turned to stone as the truth blasted him into panic, all hidden under his outwardly good mood. His feelings are already being manipulated to such a strong extent and the slow lacings of his drinks were probably an ongoing project. How long has this been happening? How could he have not caught it? Was the change so subtle that…? With that much effect on him already, he would be that _she _had begun on the first day of the school year. He would've never figured it out if it wasn't for these fated circumstances that had slowly been leading him to the answer. _She _didn't look at all affected by the lies _she _was forcing him to literally swallow. _She_ looked absolutely normal, a perfect wolf hidden in a sheep's clothing. No, rather she looked like an angel, pure and sent from the heavens to torture him with temptation…

…Fuck.

His deductions must be correct, there was no other way. But he had to tell somebody… anybody.

A week later, he found himself sitting on the edge of the windowsill, feet dangling over the stone wall, with Luna at his side. Both of them were tossing rose petals over the side, seeing how far they can be thrown when he said frankly, "Someone has been slipping bits of Amortentia into my drinks."

Scattering the rest of the petals to the whims of the air, the blonde turned her head and worriedly asked, "Do you want to love Nargles, Harry?" He shook his head as a negative and reached out, with seeker speed, snatched a petal back into his palm. She nibbled at the edge of her thumb, "They move in the shadows and often in mistletoe and moonstone. How did you manage to capture one? Daddy has been trying to all year."

Disturbingly, he almost understood her, "I used the detection spell for my food and consistently day after day, there has been Amortentia in my pumpkin juice. I took samples and tested it out myself. I can't drink it anymore and _she_ hasn't begun noticing yet, but I need to do something quick." He still wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to seek comfort from someone like Luna, but at the end of fifth year, she had proven herself to be a surprisingly good friend.

His companion hummed a ditty under her breath, shaking her head to an unsounded beat, her bottle cap necklace made small clinking noises. He rubbed his hands together, heat with friction, as a chilled breeze blew by: the beginning of winter. And then she said the single word that would be the solution to his dilemma, "Snape."

In hindsight, it was quite reasonable of her to say that. Dumbledore had his black hand to deal with, McGonagall… never really did help him (where was she in his first year? In his fifth?), the Order members were too busy to bother with him, and the other teachers he didn't know so well. He should believe her; she was sorted into Ravenclaw for a reason. And that's why he found himself, to the shock of the entire class and to the Professor, dawdling as everyone began to file away. "…Sir? May I speak to you in private… please?" He wouldn't be surprised if the man had laughed and used a wordless spell to banish him through the door.

The look the man gave him spoke of incredulity but he said nothing. The non-answer was taken as a "Yes." So he stood awkwardly by the wall as the last of his classmates filed out. Ron had looked back once with eyes as wide as dinner plates and Hermione worriedly mouthed her question. Malfoy scowled. The door shut, they were alone in a silence that made him wonder where in the world was his Gryffindor courage. Harry shifted from one foot to the other as Snape went to his desk, organized a couple of papers, never looking up to meet his stare, and sat down.

Finally, the Professor looked up. "What can be so important that garners my attention, Potter?" He asked derisively.

By Circe and Morgana, this is so bloody awkward. He fascinated himself with the titles of the large tomes on Snape's desk, _Shielding the Dark Arts_ and _Intention and Will of a Promise: the Unbreakable Vow Explained_. "Well, sir, I thought that this problem can be resolved. Different from last year where I tried to get your help and that was all a misunderstanding and I'm sorry for that." He twisted his hands nervously, feeling like a small child in trouble under the man's black gaze. "I couldn't go to the Headmaster, he's busy. And Professor McGonagall… I just don't think so. Slughorn won't help because he likes _her_ and I know that for a fact because Hermione once---"

"Potter, shut your babble and talk like a normal wizard unless you want points deducted." He said curtly, betraying nothing on his face but a small flicker across his eyes that couldn't be interpreted to anything.

His mouth clicked shut in mortification and he fought the urge to groan in horror. He had been babbling, of all things, he was babbling. His fear of his inevitable lost of control is tiring him mentally and emotionally. Soon he will succumb even though he knows that there are puppet strings. After this, Snape would never let him live this down; he should have never come here to consult with him. He sneaked a glance to the DADA teacher and found him to be stoic. Taking deep breaths, he rubbed his eyes. Too late now, he can't back down. He began again.

Only this time, his explanation was more story-like. He talked about everything in chronological order, from the charm to the family Prince (Snape's eyes went temporarily stony; he suspected that there might be some family rivalry there) and other Potion-affinity families to the detection in his drink to Luna Lovegood. The Professor's face went from blank to near incredulous and back to blank. When Harry finished his story, the man uncharacteristically, wearily rubbed his forehead.

"Why must everything wrong revolve around you, Potter?" He muttered. The question must be rhetorical.

He answered anyways with his hands up in a helpless gesture, feeling desperate enough to start begging, "Sir, I need help. I can feel the potion working already and can't find the heart to do anything to _her_. Right now, I need the antidote and---"

"It is far above your skill, Potter. The specific Hate Potion that is directly related to Amortentia requires N.E.W.T. level skill; I will have to make it for you. Are you absolutely sure you know who the culprit is? Because this is a violation of privacy to the highest degree, if caught, which will be easy to find out since Amortentia uses locks of hair, _she_ will stand trial. _Her_ family will most surely not be friendly with you anymore due to the shame that is placed upon the line for future generations. If convicted, _she_ will have _her_ wand snapped and a maximum of five years in Azkaban." Snape locked his fingers together and looked Harry in the eye.

The young wizard winced guiltily, "Is it really that bad?"

A sigh of restrained irritation and the answer came back so blandly, in such a textbook style, that Harry was sure he was being mocked, "Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is tasteless when taken with other foods and near undetectable, only by a specific incantation will it be identified. Other love potions, the lesser ones, are banned from Hogwarts but Amortentia is the most malignant form of false love. It bothers the user, leaving him or her restless, knowing that something at the edge of the mind has not been fully taken nor resolved. I'm sure you have been feeling the effects. Some wars' origins can be traced to a simple dose of Amortentia. Its power if feared. Therefore, it is banned by the Ministry unless one has a specific license to brew it, which I am positive that your little _girlfriend_ does not have."

Harry couldn't speak due to the new information reeling in his head and the fact that Snape, Professor Snape, was willing to help him. Professor Snape, the man who hated him from when he had first set eyes on him, was willing to help.

"We would have to contact a Wizard lawyer and prepare charges and evidence. It would be best if this was done publicly." The man muttered to himself, Slytherin mindset whirling away at ideas and scenarios. From his position, he locked eyes with Harry. "But Potter, one more time, you are certain that it is…"

"Yes. _Ginny Weasley_."


	5. The Eyes of a Child

With one of their own petrified, the Hufflepuffs take drastic action on who they perceive to be the guilty Heir of Slytherin. Told from Ron's point of view. The story takes place in _The Chamber of Secrets._

Author's Note: I changed Harry's living conditions Pre-Hogwarts time to match the story. I think that I'm going to give Ron a bit more Pureblood knowledge. In canon, he sounded like he knew nothing about magic but house-charms, but I'm sure that his family must have spoken about other hexes, jinxes, and wards around the dinner table. It's not like us and engineering, magic for wizards must be a sort of historical culture that they partake in, daily stuff. You get? …Whatever.

I also toyed with the plotline of Ron being sent to the Final Fantasy VII world and ending up in the slums, becoming street smart, and having his name ultimately butchered to Reno. Because of his chess skills, his ability strategize, and his accidental magic, he managed to evade the Turks for a year after accidentally getting caught up in one of their assassination missions. Then, he got captured by Tseng. Sadly, I don't think this plotline will head toward fruition. It'll mean really forcing Ron's character to mature.

Warnings: AU, implied child abuse, Bullying, First Person point of view, an attempt made to try to speak like a twelve year old.

_=oOo=_

**The Eyes of a Child**

_=oOo= _

This is a bloody nightmare. I've always thought that the 'Puffs were a bit barmy, but this takes Merlin's ass and balls. Knew something bad was going on from that morning, especially from the glares that were directed at Harry all morning from the badger table. Harry didn't notice since he didn't look up from the porridge, but then he never looks up to anyone lately. Then there was that dueling club and parseltongue and Finch-Fletchley and now _this._ I always told Hermione that it was Lockhart's fault, if that fraud wasn't so stupid, but no, the Know-It-All never listens to me.

"Oh no, Lockhart's the perfect gentle man. He's so smart and he wrote all those books. Ronald, why won't you be like him?" Merlin, with so much high pitch swooning, Mum, Ginny and 'Mione are beginning to sound alike.

It's the weekends, no classes, open game. I tried my best to stick by his side and keep him away from the crowds. Even if Harry didn't notice, I sure heard and felt them.

"He's the Heir of Slytherin. He'll kill all the mudbloods."

"Speak the language of the snakes- ought to be expelled."

Harry doesn't notice these things. Even Hogwarts has its own crowds and groups and politics. Pureblood children have to make sure that their reputations of their families are better than anyone else is- so parents train and teach. Heck, even I got some training in observation and how not to act like, 'a total imbecile'- Percy's words, not mine. I'm actually acting Slytherin right now, trying to nudge Harry in the right direction, away from danger, except, because I'm not supposed to be a Slimy Snake, I failed.

OoOoO

It happened so quickly that I wasn't sure what happened, those 'Puffs were a fast bunch, not my fault at all. One second I thought we, Harry and I, were safe, and the next, faster than the infamous Flickwick Strike at the old dueling tournaments that Bill was obsessed with, we were swarmed by black and yellow. Then, I was fighting for my life against hexes and jinxes and punches and kicks. I bit somebody's finger and held on.

Someone, I think was Macmillan, yelled, "Take him! Take the killer!"

"Oh God! Get Weasley off me!" Someone kicked me in the stomach, another foot kept me from getting up.

"Bastards! Wait till I get back to you!" I found somebody's robe and tugged hard, making them fall, but two more just took her place. Where were the professors? I know there's a crowd around us, why the hell aren't they helping?! Do they think that Harry is the Heir of Slytherin?

"Hey! What are you doing!?" That was Harry.

"Don't let him go, whatever you do! No one hurts one of the 'Puffs or else they get it! This is for Justin!"

"For Justin!" The entire group repeated. I started kicking even harder, the 'Puffs wanted blood. They demanded blood. Well they're not going to get their justice on my watch. Someone grabbed onto my neck and forced my head down, but I grabbed that arm with both hands and twisted the skin in opposite directions. No way, no way to all the realms of Magic am I going to…

"Let me go! I didn't do anything, let me go! Please! Please!" It sounds like Harry's crying. I can't see, my left cheek is swollen over my eye and blood is stinging my right eye. I got one last kick in the ribs and the whole mob went away with Harry's screams and chanting.

"For Justin! Kill the snake! Kill the snake! Kill the snake!" Then, they were gone. …Where are the professors again? What use does this school have? Safest place in Magical Britain?

Bullshit.

_Bull. Shit._

"Hey, Weasley?" A Ravenclaw girl asked when I got up, trying to help me. I pushed her, I know that voice, Edgecombe, her mom and my dad were once friends, "Are you OK?"

"Were you watching?!" My left eye barely managed to crack open and the tears (I wasn't crying, it just hurts) made everything blurry. I looked around: I was right, there was a crowd. "Were you all watching?!" I pointed my wand, my broken wand, at her face and then spun around to address the audience, Gryffins, 'Claws, and Snakes. There was Edgecombe's friend, that Asian girl, also in the crowd. "Why didn't anyone do anything if you saw the whole bloody thing?!" Nobody spoke.

They either thought that Harry was the enemy or that no one should go against the 'Puffs when they were on their crusades. Damn it. I'm wasting precious time here. "Which way did they go?"

"Wait, you can't possibly think to-"

"Which way did they go?"

"-One of you and maybe, what? Ten of them? And not all of them are Second Years-," I want to tear out my hair, or her hair, out in frustration.

"Bloody Hell, woman! Which way did they go?!"

She stopped and I heard someone whisper, "Gryffindors" like that word was an insult. I glared into the crowd.

"Down the corridor to the right." And that's where I'll go… ow, it must be black and blue under my shirt. Ow. Something's wrong with my ribs. …Ow. …Ow.

I have to do this, for Harry. I know that I'm not the best friend he can hope for; I don't think I'm the friend he deserves. I think that comparing everything, Hermione might actually come out to be a better person than I'll ever be. I have this secret, under the Sorting Hat, right after it announced my house, it said, "You're more likely to be in Slytherin than Hufflepuff." What was that suppose to mean? Well, it meant that I'm more cunning than loyal. The more I thought about it in bed, the more it made sense. I was constantly jealous of other people, my great brothers' many talents, Hermione's smartness, Harry's fame… I know I'm not the most loyal person around, that that doesn't mean I'm a bad person!

And where the hell are those damn 'Puffs anyways? "Harry? Mate? If you can hear me, just call!" This hall leads to the moving staircases and I know they won't carry Harry there because McGonagall is patrolling that area. On the right is a large painting of a fruit bowl, a giant pear, and another painting of… it was empty. Was this the entrance to the Hufflepuff commons? Well, Ron you idiot, of course they won't take Harry into their lair, they won't want the 'Heir of Slytherin' to hear the password. Sprout must also be in the Badger den, so no way will they dare to take Harry in. So Harry must be hiding somewhere. What if they knocked him out and disillusioned him? What if they vanished him? What if…

_They hid him in the broom closet?_

Harry once told me that before Hogwarts, he lived in the cupboard under the stairs, his 'hell.' He was scared of the darkness; he once said, "I usually sleep outside in the shed. Whenever I'm bad, Uncle Vernon shoves me in there and keeps me there for hours, days sometimes and I just stop thinking. I don't remember anything but screaming and crying, but then more bad things happen to me, like a thrashing, but I can't help it." I saw him rub his wrists and head. I saw fading colors in his skin and wondered why I haven't seen them before, "The fear doesn't lesson, Ron, it grows."

OoOoO

Harry's in a broom closet right now. I try to hear through the wooden door, "Mate? You there? It's me; I'm coming to get you out." All bravado, no bite some muggle reference Hermione used whenever she wanted to descibe wimps. Harry's scratching at the door, pretty desperately by the sounds of it. There's really fast breathing too and sounds that aren't too good. "Harry?"

There was a moan, "Get me out, I didn't do anything."

"Alohomora! Alohomora! Alohomora!" A blue light came from my wand, the spell worked; the lock was more complex than what I know. I whispered to the hinges, "Harry? Just stay calm, I'll get you out of there. Don't hurt yourself."

At first, I thought he really did go to sleep, but then, "Uncle? I'm sorry Uncle. Please, I'll be good again. I'll be a normal boy, a normal boy, a normal boy…"

Damn 'Puffs! I ran back to their entrance and started kicking it, "Tossers! Get out you cowards! Fight me like a man! Get Harry out of there, he's innocent! He's twelve, can't even do a good stunning spell right now!" Edgecombe and her friend, Cho, came around the corner and this time, they were actually helping me. I concentrated at the blank portrait, "Open the goddamn door before I fucking declare feud on every single one of you!" An empty threat at best, but it was the best I can come up with. The 'Claws couldn't help much, the door still didn't open, the locking ward must be N.E.W.T. level, how'd they get a seventh year to help them? Then the portrait opened, but not the second years, but a fourth year, "Diggory."

"Weasley. What seems to be the problem?"

…Was he serious? …He was; he knew nothing. The daft, clueless, git! I pointed to the cupboard, "The problem is that your bloody housemates locked my best mate in a cupboard." For my explanation, I got an even more confused look. I groaned. Come on, there has to be something, brain matter, under his posh exterior, "Harry Potter is clasto… claustro…" The word rolled in my tongue, couldn't spit it out, but I think Diggory got the gist, since he rushed over in his entire loyalty-yellow and black, glory, whipped out his wand and started examining the spell.

I heard a scream from the door and more pounding and more hysterical sobbing, "Uncle! Uncle! Please let me out! I'll be good! I'll be good! I'll be good!"

Diggory paused in his spell work; I saw his eyes widen, "Potter?" He placed his ear against the door and started whispering really fast, "Potter, it's going to be alright. Can you hear me? Just calm down, you'll hurt yourself."

I closed my eyes. "He won't hear you, you know." I said when Harry didn't stop.

"At least I'm trying!" He sniped back.

"At least I… Well it doesn't do any good if your own mates started it!" Diggory sent a sorrowful look in my direction. Good: he should be feeling bad.

Then Chang came to his rescue, "Don't get mad at him! He didn't do anything!"

"_You_ didn't do anything!" Chang backed up as if I had hit her, Edgecombe gave me a really dirty look. Diggory shushed us and turned back to the door.

After ten minutes of poking the lock with his wand, Diggory finally began the counter spell, the easier, long-chant version. Harry screamed the entire time and scratched and clawed and pounded the door; a couple of times Diggory faltered a bit in his chanting and had to start all over. The two Ravenclaws were scared, hugging each other and staring at the cupboard. Two minutes later, we heard a big 'Thud' and Harry suddenly became silent. Five minutes later, Diggory managed to open the door and crawled in, whispering something. Five minutes later, after a lot of noises, Diggory managed to pull out Harry. Harry was in his arms. I took a step closer, Harry's eyes were wide open, bloodshot, and he was muttering things to himself about his Uncle, no more beating, and how he was going to be a good boy and not do anything freakish, I waved my hand in front of his face, and he didn't blink. I winced and whispered, "Bloody hell. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything, mate."

"He's not responding to anything, I'm going to take him to Pomfrey." The fourth year announced, shifting Harry into a more comfortable position. He brushed hair from Harry's face and hugged him closer to his chest and muttered some words into his ears. Harry stopped his self-talking and looked up at the Hufflepuff, then closed his eyes and rested his head against Diggory's shoulder. Cute: I looked away and turned to Chang who was watching them two with a scary glint in her eyes.

"We-we'll come with you!" Chang said quickly, and then she blushed. "We'll do it in order to-to check up on him." Edgecombe and I groaned; don't tell me she fancies him. Diggory looked at her, she turned even redder.

Looking really uncomfortable, Diggory smiled at her. Then he turned and stared behind me, "When I get back..." I looked around and nearly jumped in surprise. The second year 'Puffs had, at some point in time, came out of the portraits and were standing next to the wall, looking shameful. I sneered at them, they all ducked their heads. "When I get back, I'll be telling Professor Sprout all about this. You all ought to be ashamed. He's only twelve! He can't do anything bad, he won't do anything bad!" Diggory turned away and headed to the stairs, the two Ravenclaws right behind him.

I stared at the 'Puffs and smiled at them with my black-eyed glory. Macmillan looked down and shuffled his feet, "But he was a Parselmouth and he attack Justin. Hufflepuffs protect our own…"

"Hufflepuffs have common sense and aren't supposed to turn into Wizard-hunting groups." I snapped back. "See what you did? He's broken; he's gone. He didn't do anything, won't hurt a fly, he was trying to help Finch-Fletchley at Lockhart's Dueling Club, it was Malfoy who summoned the snake."

"But we were so sure. We all were…" I glared at Abbot into silence.

I laughed at them, even though my ribs were protesting it all the way, "You are so lucky I don't go and declare Feud, I might actually win in the Courts of Magic if I called upon Magic herself. Maybe she'll strip herself from you, because you are a bunch of tossers." Recalling the formal accusation speech in my head, I stared each of them down, from Bones to Smith, "He has done nothing, and you harmed an innocent because you called for blood. Tell this to all Hufflepuffs. You will not touch him. You will not talk to him. You will not even look at him the wrong way." I redirected my glare at their leader, Macmillan, who, I'm happy to say, flinched, "If anything… _anything…_happens to him in the future…"

Not saying anything else, I shuffled and limped up the stairs, also going to the Hospital Wing. I have a black eye, a bloody temple, swollen lip and probably some damage to my insides were my ribs are; I also have a best friend who I have to look over, who doesn't have anyone in the world besides me, and who is slowly learning that fact. "_Hogwarts is the safest place in England,_" my mind supplied in a high, girly, Hermione-sounding voice. I laughed at the thought, though it came out of my mouth like a croak. You can protect yourself from the outside world with Death-Eaters and bad Wizards and Witches like Baba-Yaga, but what can protect you from people already in it.

What happens if you're hated by the entire school? What's stopping them from taking you, beating you black and blue, and stuffing you into a broom closet? _"Hogwarts is the safest place in England."_

Bullshit.

_Bull. Shit._


	6. Escaping Riddle

Nothing was ever normal for Luna Lovegood: trying to talk a young Dark Lord from killing Hogwarts students was not normal in the slightest. Pairing- Implied Luna/Tom

Author's Note- This is an Experimental Style in Second Person. I thought that this idea was really original… till I saw another fic with the same idea and written really well too, better than this one-shot at least. But I thought, "What the hell, I'll put it up anyways." This fic is insanely ambiguous. I don't own Harry Potter.

Warnings: AU, Second Person Point of View, Underage Implied Romance

**Escaping Riddle**

Prologue

The fact that within a week any potential friends that you met at the Ravenclaw Table saw you as 'persona non grata' the moment you tried to get into an intellectual conversation pertaining to magical animals didn't truly bother you _that much_. The same occurence happened in the days of pre-Hogwarts too, after your mother died, when you started seeing Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and the creatures that in general, no one else could see. Daddy believed you, at least, bless his heart, he believed. But no one else: the kids of Ottery St. Catchpole of families like the Diggorys, the Weasleys, and the Fawcetts, were just like the kids at this school.

And you and Ginny used to be best of friends.

It became troublesome when your belongings started to disappear and reappear in a poorer shape than they had started out with.

It became even more troublesome when you bumped into Ginny as you were trying to look for your belongings… since it wasn't really Ginny.

_Dear Daddy,_

_School is fun; I got sorted into Ravenclaw like Mum. Classes are interesting and I like the teachers and students. Write back soon._

_Love, Luna._

Part One

Ginny was sitting on the window ledge in a position that isn't suitable for the uniform skirts, staring outside with an expression that mixed nostalgia and revenge together, twirling her wand in circles with fluidity that reminded you of when your mother used to dance in the gardens. You decided to stop and stare for a while, eyes fixed upon the twirl, so fixated that you only saw a streak of brown in a never ending circle, accompanied by a soft, ethereal noise that only unusual magics create, it felt dark and powerful, a combination that you found addicting. Your head tilted to the right as you contemplated this idea: Ginny was a pureblood, but purebloods usually don't have music following wherever they walk.

How lovely. You began to hum along with the tune…

The dance stopped quite suddenly, you looked up and took an involuntary step back, Ginny's eyes were red, scarlet like the Rage Potion when in its final stages. You realized that this person wasn't Ginny. When Fake-Ginny stood in front of you, you got the feeling that she towered over you, though she wasn't. It didn't feel like Fake-Ginny was in an adequate enough body for her stature, wrong power, wrong age, perhaps even wrong gender. Fake-Ginny held a presence that was mesmerizing, a trait that Real-Ginny could never possess.

Eyes narrowing in accusing observation, Fake-Ginny looked down on you and it took her a couple seconds to identify who you were, "You're Luna Lovegood." She smirked at you as if she was reciting a private joke, "Pleasure." Without waiting for a response, "Or shall I say, 'Loony Luna'?"

"Is that what they call me?" You asked. Fake-Ginny's eyes glinted that reminded her of Dumbledore's glittering eyes, "its ok," you quickly reassured, "I'm used to it." And you begin to shift under the unnerving gaze, one that sent shudders down your spine. Fake-Ginny stilled but you were staring at down at her loafers which, strangely, were wet and tinted green at the bottom.

_Dear Daddy,_

_At school, I could hear the school; it's sentient with a female voice. I can't recognize the language, but it's so pretty! I wish you were here with me._

_Luna._

Part Two

"Relieve my curiosity," Fake-Ginny said two weeks later at the doorway of the Charms classroom, "Why are you thought of as, if I should use the common term, barmy? You seem perfectly normal if not in the clouds at times" It was five minutes before the first year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors and Fake-Ginny had taken the chance to sit by you, making you feel a bit put out since it was rude if you decided to switch seats now. You didn't like Fake-Ginny; she seemed too leery and too old. You've seen old souls before, the talented kids that came out of their mother's womb with a mind of a ten year old, already filled with reflection and awareness of the possibilities in the world. They were the unexplainable geniuses and prodigies of society. You fancied yourself an old soul, once, but Daddy always tried to discourage you against egoism. After the first meeting, you found that Fake-Ginny's new old-soul-ness was wrong. It felt _wrong_.

Today, all of your efforts to avoid the ginger-haired girl had finally come to an end. Nonchalantly, you wound a strand of hair around your wand and wondered the merits of telling a lie: on one hand, it would stop Fake-Ginny from constantly seeking you but on the other hand, if caught lying, you might incur Fake-Ginny's wrath, which you have a gut feeling will not be something one wish to witness. The other witch, you realized fearfully, could also read minds. Whenever you looked at Fake-Ginny's brown eyes, you felt touches at the back of your head, a small push, as casual as bumping a hurrying body in the crowded hallways. The Gryffindor was as Slytherin as the epitome of Slytherin could be. You tried to warn your fellow housemates, but by then, you were the laughing stock of Ravenclaw. Fake-Ginny's persistence (at what? Alliance? Friendship?) makes you constantly wonder her motives and that's the problem, you haven't gotten an ounce of a hint to what they are. Daddy always told you to go by your gut-feelings, a muggle phrase.

Fake-Ginny looked at you as if she hadn't been, for the past two weeks, seeking your company. You nibbled your bottom lip and decided to tell the truth, "A trauma in a childhood can unlock more sections of the brain that are attuned to unusual abilities, magical and otherwise." You replied, staring ahead.

Trauma like seeing death; seeing Thestrals aren't the only side-effects. Fake-Ginny crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, "True, I have read the rare research articles from the Department of Mysteries. What you speak of is the foundation of all Dark Magic." More students began pouring into the classroom, chatting and playfully pushing one another (you briefly glanced at them and imagined yourself as one of them) but Flitwick was still not to be seen. "Rituals too." The witch scratched her chin, lost in thought, "a traumatic experience, hmm?" You noticeably stiffened, keeping your gaze to your black loafers, new and shiny. It wasn't that Mother blew up into a thousand bits when the spell backfired, no, Mother _shattered _like glass and disappeared into the air in a cloud of glittering dust. A dark chuckle, "Don't worry, I won't pry into those personal matters. Not if you would tell me what you gained."

If you focused your magic in a way that felt like aiming a 'lumos' spell into your eyes, you could perceive the species of the Lesser Fae, long thought extinct since Merlin's time, flying over Flitwick's books. Waist-high pixies crept amongst moving shadows, pointing and snickering and making obscene gestures. You peeked through your bangs suspiciously and tilted your head, "the ability to see Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Nargles," using Daddy's term for your creatures. You could see the long, graceful limbs that were tanned earthly brown walking through walls, appearing into the room and out into a field of silver trees, dwelling in a world that parallels our own in space-time but not in actual realism.

Her eyes widened in fascination and hunger, "You have a type of Sight, do you?" She muttered triumphantly as the chairs around them began to fill, "I've only seen two books about Sight and one of them only mentions it in passing." She casually flicked her hair behind her shoulder, smiling tightly, "I wish you were in my graduating class in the forties when you would have been useful to me… such a rare gift Magic has bestowed upon you..."

"It's not a gift." All dizzy-happiness left you in a flurry, leaving you as a stone remain, "It's _not_ a gift." Flitwick tapped his wand against his stool, shooting far-reaching sparks to capture attentions: class began. Breathing deeply, you resolved to not talk to Fake-Ginny for the rest of the period, not ever. While you were taking notes, hairs stood up at the back of your neck; Fake-Ginny was emitting uncontrolled magic, just enough for you and only you to feel… perhaps it wasn't uncontrolled then. She's only mad because her interrogation was interrupted, she's not furious, just annoyed, she's not going to seek you out to kill. You stopped taking notes and looked down at your quill; your hand was shaking it violently. You risked peeking a glance at Fake-Ginny who, you realized with a cringe, had been staring at you with blood eyes knowingly with a smirk.

_Dear Daddy,_

_The first spell I learned in this school is the levitation charm. I floated feathers into little patterns in the air._

_Luna._

Part Three

Skipping down quickly to the dungeons to quickly wish Nearly-Headless Nick a happy Death Day, you held _Ghost's Guide to Temporary Intangibility (100+ yrs old)_ to your chest, humming Bathilda Banshee's latest piece. You kept your head down and stared at your ruined loafers: someone, yesterday, had decided to drop them in Moaning Myrtle's toilet and forgot to tell you. They're still usable, Daddy doesn't have to know. The book was a comforting weight against your chest, you hugged it tighter, promising yourself that if Nickolas required, you can turn the pages for him as he reads since the voice activation spells go wonky at times.

Your first year at Hogwarts has been going just as you expected except for one factor… You haven't seen Fake-Ginny in a while but Real-Ginny. Fake-Ginny is so frightening, she inspired the same type of the fear that you felt the moment Daddy said that Mother wasn't coming back. Is it an instinct to sense something fundamentally wrong, even if one was never exposed to it before hand or taught about it? Lost in those thoughts, you turned the final corner and nearly tripped over your two shoes in a bid to stop. Your book slipped through your fingertips, but your presence wasn't acknowledged.

Fiery red hair was in complete disarray, her forehead was touching the stone; Real-Ginny silently cried as she traced through the stones, over and over again, with red ink. No, wait, with blood, her own blood, and yet there was a dead… petrified cat lying on its side at her feet. Is she trying to initiate a blood ritual? But only Fake-Ginny should know how to do that, unless… Both Ginnys are in communication with each other. A sob forced through Real-Ginny's mouth as she sniffed. "I want to be closer to my Prince. To be closer to Prince Potter; I will be Mrs. Potter. You promised, Tom, you promised!" Real-Ginny smacked the wall with her wounded hand splattering blood onto the floor and continued writing.

_**The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enem**_

She still hasn't noticed you there. Real-Ginny hiccupped and cried as she reached up to write the next letter, "Mrs. Potter. Mrs. Ginevra Molly Potter nee Weasley… I will… marry… for love… You promised, Tom." She muttered as a mantra. There were no Nargles around her head, whispering evils into her ear; the source was inside her head. Another voice, another spirit possession… was it Fake-Ginny? Named… Tom?

It looked to be the beginnings of a free-magic intentioned blood ritual, otherwise known as Class BIF3, your mother once showed you her paper on the lesser known sub branch. It takes a lot of core magic to achieve the desired results; Real-Ginny is only eleven years old, this ritual can kill her. Then again, she has Numerology on her side, being the first-born female and the seventh-born child of a seventh-born child of a seventh-born child, with the right tutelage; she could become a first generation mage… The Weasleys were always a bit off like that, in fact, in history they were infamous for their obsession with numbers. She … you decided hesitantly, should be fine. You really don't want to chance upon whether Fake-Ginny will reappear or not.

You bent down to pick up Nickolas's gift and used your free hand to wipe off the dust and took one last glance at the sad picture of a girl before you; you feel utterly helpless. What can you do? It would be best if you didn't go to the Death Day party then. You should apologize to Nickolas profusely tomorrow, he'll understand if you tell the story in detail. You stared down at the book mournfully, turned around, and walked back up to the Great Hall where no one noticed that you were missing.

At the edge of the table, you set aside your bag and took out some paper and a quill-

_Dear Daddy,_

_School's great. Ginny's nice to me again when I told her about my number-idea. School is absolutely magical and wonderful, just like you said it would. At the first feast, it turned out that Harry Potter and his friend Ronald Weasley missed the train and flew to school on a car and then crashed into the Whomping Willow. They look fine; I don't think Snape is though. Maybe I'll show you a memory. How's your work? I wrote to Uncle Remus that if he should meditate more to his wolf, it would help. I told him to not hesitate to ask for help, I still have my mother's family books._

_Love, Luna._

Part Four

Fake-Ginny came back the day after a Hufflepuff and Nearly-Headless Nick. You were sitting outside by the lakeside, wrapped in a thick cloak that Daddy sent over which was new and smelled of lavender, wanting to cherish the gift before it, too, inevitably, ends up stolen or in the bathroom or worse. With your wand, you drew a creature, a cross between a pig and a rhinoceros, and nibbled on your lip. It looked about right, from what you remembered from your trip to Switzerland. You raised your head to gaze over to the lakeside, three tentacles waved cheerfully at you. You grinned and returned the gesture, wondering the chances of the Giant Squid being an animagus stuck in his creature form. In _Hogwarts a History_, it's said that the Giant Squid had suddenly appeared during the Renaissance with no wizard able to give a clear explanation as to why. Either way, if it was a man before, it wouldn't help now; staying in the animal form for too long makes a person succumb to his or her feral side.

"Interesting, may I inquire as to what this is?" You jolted violently; a hand settled on your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you; you looked up. Fake-Ginny moved to your right and settled down with her knees bent in front of her, she leaned over your shoulder, too closely, to examine the drawing. In her hands was a non-descript diary.

Fake-Ginny's presence in the body in the body was much stronger than before, nearly visible to your eye. The spirit was magnanimous and seemed to bleed out of the body that can't contain its power. Fake-Ginny was powerful, too powerful. Your throat dried, "a Crumple-Horned Snorkack." They frolicked among the northern countries in the mainland, you wanted to say, usually preferring the high altitude areas where it was hard to breath. Fake-Ginny was Dark, too powerful, you felt nauseated, "…Tom?" You whispered.

The only change in Fake-Ginny was the slight tensing of her neck muscle, other than that, she ignored the question, "Who are your parents?" …Don't tell her, don't tell her, your eyes widened. That questioned screamed of Pure-Blood Supremacy. You shrunk inwardly and moved to tighten your cloak around your body but Fake-Ginny's freckled hand grabbed your wrist, not too tightly but secure. Fake-Ginny's red eyes met yours as she asked lightly, "Who are your parents?" A foreign presence prodded at the outer layers of your mind; you flinched and quickly looked away. Your wrist was still in her grip.

"Xenophilius Mortimer Lovegood and Selene Kore Lovegood nee Lupin." You yanked your wrist away and drew in upon yourself. Fake-Ginny is a bully and Daddy told you how to deal with bullies: just ignore them until they get bored, they will, eventually. The Giant Squid was on the other side by the train tracks, slapping at the ground in some parody version of the bongo drums. You wondered if Fake-Ginny is going to inquire any further back and wondered what you were going to say. Daddy had both the famed Lovegood eccentricity and the Richards love for sensationalism. Your mother came from the La Lune cult in the mainland and the Malfois original family in France. The Malfoy in Slytherin had nothing compared to her. You often wondered what part of your heritage or what combination of bloodlines was part of the reason why you could see the Otherworld.

There was no reply, just steady breathing. Fighting against your curiosity, you refused to look at Fake-Ginny. Curiosity and risky investigations are for Gryffindors, Ravenclaws attack their burning questions for knowledge with common sense and research. The sun was beginning to set from a semi-circle of burning light into nothingness. You scuffed out the picture of the Snorkack with your loafer and huddled into your cloak, unwilling to move until Fake-Ginny retreated. The wind blew hair into your eyes and mouth, which you brushed away. The evening rose up in purples and dark blues, the trees were losing their color. You yawned mildly into your hand.

"I know of the families; they're Grey." It took you a while to comprehend what Fake-Ginny was referring to before you could set up a rebuttal. Examine the reply from a Slytherin point of view: becoming Grey and staying Grey is a difficult challenge. Wizards and Witches who are in Grey families are to follow a strict regimen of training and spell work that belied the impression of balancing between the line of Light and Dark. Grey means independence; Grey means cowardliness; Grey means living a dangerous lifestyle where your friends would try to appease you one day and kill you the next. Especially during Magic Civil Wars like now.

"Daddy's Grey. I'm undeclared." You yawned again and vainly rubbed sleep from your eyes.

"Come on, you're only eleven. You need rest."

And Fake-Ginny isn't eleven. "'m 'k." You huddled closer into your cloak in rebellion and mumbled as a pair of strong arms wrapped around you and hoisted you to your feet. Two hands on your shoulder turned you around and guided you back to the castle. Looking down, you saw a transparent hand, callused and unfreckled, you looked up at Fake-Ginny. Fake-Ginny's eyes were like cat's eyes with scary intelligence, an old soul. You tried to rationalize to yourself that what you are feeling isn't fear, no, not fear at all. The duality of the souls before you aren't creating enough chaotic magic to scare Circe's wits out of you, not at all.

Fake-Ginny's breath was next to your ear, you distinctly remember Daddy giving you a lecture on personal space before sending you to the Hogwarts Train. "What do you see when you see me?" demanding, fierce, master.

You tried to shrug Fake-Ginny off but she wouldn't relent, "A soul," you acquiesced, "No… a memory, of a man. One half of a whole." When you were ten, you went through Mother's tomes in hopes of finding an answer to your gift, back then which was called a disease. Daddy had hypothesized that we, as magical people, lived in the second layer of reality. What you saw, Little-Luna, is the first reality, what people in the Middle Ages called the Otherworld, the portals going from that parallel world to ours are long gone, though there are some stragglers about, oh enough about that. The point is, is that you could see through layers of reality's fabric, outstanding creatures of sentience and fantasticality! Crumple-Horned Snorkacks don't even touch the tip of the waters, do they? The original five vampire clans and five werewolf packs, the Fae, the Harpies, the ancestors of what we have now.

How do you know, Daddy?

Plato, my dear child, as legends speak, has been doing calculations of this sort since he could walk. What we live in isn't the truest form of which we live in. He called it "Mimesis," an imitation of an imitation of the Otherworld, which is closer to the Truth. What a gift Lady Magic has given you, you are blessed, my child.

And how did you ever know that Daddy had a brief stint at the DoM where he met Mother? You craned your neck over to see black hair and cold blue, blue, icy blue eyes, "Soul Magic isn't Dark, it's Black. You have half of a soul; you can be independent from your other half." I know what you did at the corridor, don't make me tell. "You can change... Tom." You opened your eyes wide and placed Earnest-ness in them. If you concentrate, you could see Tom's body melt into a cloud of black smoke. By the Undine at the lake, there was a crow perched on a piece of driftwood with three red eyes, flapping its wings. There was a murder of crows at the Forbidden Forest.

Tom's image faded in and out, his ghostly transparent school robes blended in with the dark sky and the feeling of Ginny, who was sobbing and sleeping in her own mind, was hidden underneath the cloak. His face flashed through a serious of furious maliciousness before blanking out that scared you the most; he wasn't happy at you. "A bit too smart for your own good, aren't you, girl?" He ushered you into the school and stopped at the cross paths where one direction lead to the library and the other to the dungeons. You wondered about the connection he had with the Chamber of Secrets, with that poor cat of the Squib's. You wondered if it has to do anything with the hissing of the school pipes and how many bathrooms the hissing has been problematic in. He has done Black Magic upon his own soul. He has done _Black Magic, _a practice that lands the user in Azkaban for ten years, minimum. You wonder how old Tom (who has no apparent family name) is and if he was alive when Grindelwald or Montmorency had reined their terror upon the world.

"Are you my friend?" You received no answer but a tightening of the shoulders. "Why?" You inquired.

You turned around and saw Tom retreating back into the body. Real-Ginny was surfacing. The transition was terribly interesting, her face went through multiple twists and her eyes had rolled upwards to her brains, classic case of Possession. You wondered the chances of anyone believing you if you reported the event and whether you will end up in the Permanent Ward at Mungo's if you did. Real-Ginny gasped, startled, and collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap. Not wanting to be identified, you darted to the stairs, peeked one last time back, and headed back to the Ravenclaw entrance.

_Dear Daddy,_

_Today, Professor Flitwick made all the furniture in the Commons do cartwheels. I also made a new friend, his name is Tom._

_Luna._

Part Five

In the library, you sat across from Tom. You fiddled with your quill, wondering about the properties of Lacewings and Basilisk skin in a base potion ingredient; the parchment before you is empty, but you could see the beginnings of words creeping at the top corner. Luna Admete Lovegood: Merlin's Beard, you hardly use your middle name these days. At the other tables were other students, the majority were Raveclaws and Slytherins, studying for their classes. At the corner was Flitwick, who volunteered to chaperone a group to the Library, given the dangers that lurk these corridors. You grow uneasy, remembering the news about the second year Hufflepuff and Nickolas, petrified. What did they see? A gorgon? Medusa herself?

You nibbled on your bottom lip and ignored the scratching of quills on parchment that came from Tom. Petrification affected the brain at the lobes that dealt with visuals and motor functions but in a way that made the body suffer through rigor mortis, even if they aren't dead. Sight Petrification is when the body experiences complete fear through what the senses perceives as something so horrible that it would be better if one would just shut off from the rest of the world. The Body-bind spell is only a mere imitation of the effects… Huh… Imitation. Lacewings and Boomslang skin are used to make Polyjuice Potion but it's been hypothesized by known Potion Masters such as Prince and Bones that replacing Boomslang with small amounts of Basilisk skin because of the potent magic inherent within the animal that the effects Polyjuice can be prolonged to hours, even days. That, of course, required intense magical theory to back up the claims.

You looked up at Tom who was completing his own essay with untold ease; he probably was assigned the same task years back. Your thoughts go back to his words days back in Charms class, "I'm a visionary. The Wizarding world needs to be reformed: the government and the education system. In my school days, before Dumbledore, we had internships, career paths, accelerated learning programs, and specialized classes after O.W.L.s such as Rituals, Enchanting, Alchemy, and clubs where magical gifts can be trained. Where are they now? Are they all disbanded? The more I stay here, the more I am disgusted. There is no progress in our financial ability, or interracial diplomacy, or its education to Muggleborns who thinks that their culture is better than ours. They try to change us; they instilled fear of differences between us, of werewolves and Giants. Our blood is dwindling. This world needs to change before it dies."

You didn't manage to catch all what he said in his diatribe, only the basics, but you were sure that he had given his speech, perhaps slightly modified, to his fellow classmates when he was in this school. His voice does carry and he has charisma, even if he's stuck in an eleven year old girl's body. You reread your introduction paragraph and made a few changes in wording before nodding in satisfaction. Flickwick was riffling through a book that appeared to have been from the Restricted Section. Tom had split his _soul_; he did _Black Magic_. The words had been two votes short of a Taboo at the Wizengamot right after Grindelwald's Terror.

"You shouldn't be frightened of me, dear Luna." He said mildly, still appearing to be engrossed in his essay. "You have grown onto me; I don't think I can bear to see you killed." You were halfway through your third paragraph when your quill snapped at that comment. Wordlessly, you bent down to your pack to retrieve another one as he continued, "I won't kill. I only want the best for you and I."

You mumbled out of the corner of your mouth as you dipped the tip of the quill in the ink bottle, "Attacking students is good for you and I?"

"I'm not attacking the students." You looked up at Tom and then looked away, blinking in surprise when you saw ink blots on your parchment. Oooh, Snape doesn't like that sort of thing. Concentrate and remember, Tom can read minds. "Weasley's acting for her own behalf, each victim, in case you haven't noticed, has a connection to Harry Potter that she's either trying to stalwartly defend or is murderously jealous of." You shook your head and moved to try and return to your essay, but Tom's hand clasped your chin and tilted your head upwards to meet his eyes, "Think of this, dear Luna." He said, smirking, leaning forward, "As an observation upon a human psyche."

You grabbed his outstretched arm and placed then on the desk, "Turn them back, please." You whispered back. "What have you done? What are you going to do with Potter?"

"What is the hidden darkness of a mind?" Tom continued, completely ignoring you, "How crazed can a girl's obsession with her imaginary Prince, and trust me, her obsession runs far, I would know. She tells me everything in my diary." He took said diary out of an inner pocket of Ginny's robe and placed it on the desk. You realized two things at one: this was a sign of trust, this was also…

"It's your anchor." You blinked, "Why are you showing me your anchor if I can just cast a cutting charm and destroy you?" A couple students nearby twisted around and shushed you.

"Smart girl." He tilted his head and grinned, you are struck by how his looks would fit within the high echelons of the Aristocratic Pureblood ring, "As if there aren't charms to protect against that sort of thing? I have thought things out. But can you say that you aren't the least bit curious how will this all sort through?" Tom tucked away the finished essay back into his well-worn pack, "where's your Ravenclaw curiosity? You know as well as I do who Ginevra is." The first born daughter of the family, the seventh child of the seventh child of the seventh child, "and you are telling me that you aren't the least bit interested if she will fight back or win over with her tendencies? It makes you wonder about her life, her psychology, what morals she was reared upon. This might even be a chance to draw out her innate potential, no matter how disappointingly buried it is within her."

You shook your head, "It's wrong. What's going to happen afterwards? You are controlling her body; somebody's bound to notice soon. What's going to happen to you?"

"Why would you care?" His voice darkened; you cowered back in your chair; his features softened, "I've seen the way everyone treats you here." He had been there when you found your photos of your mother stuffed down the sink; the older Ravenclaw girls were standing and giggling at the side, waiting to see your reaction. "You and I? We're the dregs of society, but not for long. You have to thirst for knowledge. With a gift like yours, what do you think you can accomplish?" He changed tactics; he's beginning to use force, less reason. He leaned forward, you huddled farther back into your chair, staring at his red eyes and holding your quill out in an instinctive defense position. He's a manipulator, he's a tyrant, he sees you, he holds you.

What Tom says doesn't mean anything. You don't know how he thinks like he does, there's no excuse to justify the means, none. He managed to transform the petty into something completely evil because he wants you with him. The thought creeps you out more than usual.

_Dear Daddy,_

_Tom is really smart, he helped me on my essays by revising and updating my diction into something that Professor Snape might give me an EE on. Potter can talk to snakes. I looked up his family: did you know that the Potters were the descendents of the Peverells? I suspect marrying a muggleborn brought out the gift or it could be that the You-Know-Who gave him the gift of Parseltoungue inadvertently. Thanks for the new shoes, you really didn't have to. I made a charm for you too, with my own love; it would get rid of the Angeli-Malais at your shoulders who eat up your confidence through your ear. Hope I can see you soon._

_Your daughter, Luna._

Part Six

"Seven."

"Hmm?" You looked to your side at Tom who decided to sit with you during lunch at the Great Hall. You toyed with your mash potatoes and mixed it with generous helpings of gravy before making a little swirl pattern. You noticed out of the corner of your eye that Tom had set up a privacy ward around you two.

Tom looked calm, like a contented snake that just ate its fill, a sleeping dragon. He patiently replied, "Seven Horcruxes. I suspect my counterpart had split his soul into seven pieces that was my goal. Not three, but seven because in Arithmancy-."

"Seven is a magic number." It felt like your own body was going through petrification. It felt like your stomach turned into a lump of ice, "You split your soul, not once but seven times. _Seven times._ And each time you split it, it was half of an half. You're the only fully whole soul; every other piece is a fourth, an eighth, a sixteenth… Merlin and Morgana. " Split souls can't even re-congregate with the original base. You groaned. Mother once offhandedly mentioned this while you were doing your Theoretical Magic studies and you asked Daddy about it at the dinner table. You reckoned it was the first big row between them that shook the residence to its foundations.

His grip on your shoulder tightened, "Don't be frightened. The last person you should be scared of in this school should be me." He smiled, showing some teeth, "I found a way to take my body."

Daddy told you to never tickle a sleeping dragon. You peeked through your fingers and shuddered. What are you doing, conversing with a monster? "Does that mean you changed, Tom?" Pause, "What do you think about Harry Potter?"

He shrugged, "He's the Boy-Who-Lived who destroyed my remaining soul."

"Nothing else?" Tom doesn't want to kill him for now? Well, Potter was a baby when that occurred, it wouldn't be all Potter's fault. His arm around your waist would seem suspicious if it hadn't been for the privacy ward. Then again, to any outsider, the two of you would look like really close friends.

"…Not for now." He slid a scroll over to you and said, "Be happy I wasn't thinking about the Regeneration Potion or else I would have a use for him, at the very least, his blood. No, I was thinking about a temporary Golem and then continuing my studies till I can find the perfect body."

Stupefied, "Golem?" You breathed out. "No."

"Why my dear Luna?" He looked wounded but that was only to mock you, "does this not suit your tastes? It used to be popular in the Old Times. This is Grey magic. Don't you want what's best for me?"

You hesitated, struggling to find your next words; you protested, "The Magi-Praestigiator ritual will still leave you with half of a soul. You will always feel like you're missing something. You can't do this."

He looked pleased, "So you have heard of the ritual? Excellent." His red eyes glittered with anticipation like rubies under the sunlight. He patted you on the back and rose up, cancelling the ward, "We'll begin the preparations soon and I'll leave you to your dinner."

_Dear Daddy,_

_School is amazing. Today, I found the kitchens. I made you a necklace of bottle caps that I convinced the school elves to give to me. _

_Love, Luna._

Part Seven

_Dear my little niece,_

_Is anything wrong? Your letters have turned more ambiguous of the late. Don't tell me you're hiding something from me. Is it the bullies? I know you are a strong girl but sometimes I fear for your strong independence, you are just like your mother. Did you get my book? I think it might help you with your, as you put it, Cassandra-like Seer and Sight abilities._

_As for me, I've been doing on and off jobs around small Wizarding villages. There is a Potions guild, the one who inducted Severus Snape into their ranks, who offered to pay me to get werewolf hair samples. It was quite a hefty sum, since apparently most rogue werewolves are too dangerous and the rest are in hiding or with Greyback. Either way, I'll be comfortable for some time, so you don't need to worry. Just yesterday, I was outside, collecting samples of vegetation around Switzerland, as per your request, when I got a note via Firebird entrance from your Headmaster about a future space as the DADA teacher. I see that the curse upon that position still hasn't been resolved._

_Maybe I can finally teach you the enchantment charms that you were always curious about. Maybe I can finally meet my secondary godson face to face without Polyjuicing as random street vendors, in a Zoo. I'm so proud that your friend, Tom, and you are getting along splendidly, perhaps I can meet him. I can't wait to see you soon Luna._

_Your Uncle Remus._

You sat cross-legged on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, looking from Uncle's letter and longingly to the Basilisk skin. In the adjoining chamber, you heard hissing. What's Tom's plan? He mentioned something about a locket he needs to retrieve across a sea of Inferi to replace his own soul in the diary, but then he had immediately shut down the moment he noticed that you were actually listening to him. You took out some stationary, wiped off the smudges of dirt and blood, and prepared to write a reply.

Tom has grown darker and more possessive towards the end of the year, grabbing you by the arm or waist and hugging you more than usual. Tom also made a bargain with you, "If you would help me, you would not see me till my counterpart is destroyed. If you won't, I think I might just stay in Weasley's residence forever and let the pureblood traitor to rot. If you do help, after Voldemort is gone," Tom said benignly, ignoring the way your eyes grew wide, "I'll find you." How did you get into this mess? You want Tom as a friend and yet you really don't want him near you. Inwardly, you hoped that you would be halfway across the world before he gets near Hogwarts of your house. Inwardly, you hoped that you would find him again. "You see, dear Luna, I will never lie to you. You know you can always depend on me."

But he's dark, he has done Black Magic, _Black Magic,_ not only once, but seven times. He can control you so easily if you so much as hint at a submissive personality. He's chaotic and powerful, so powerful it makes you dizzy and faint. Currently, you're sitting in Tom's Golem lap; you could see his soul outline superseding the image of the fake body. Tom has his head buried in your hair, humming contently. "You're like me and yet you're not," he whispered gently, "The dichotomy interests me." You shivered. His arms cross your chest and pull you back; you feel his overwhelming power. You know his words imply double meanings.

You are stuck in this… this… maze of Tom. It was too late before you realized what you had gotten yourself into and now it was much too late to escape. Tom never lets go. He never lets go.

_Dear Uncle Remus,_

_I thank you with all my heart, your book on magical Sight really helped my understanding and your samples from Switzerland will be further proof that Crumple-Horned Snorkacks exist. Nothing is wrong; I've only been seeing things. Tom is in seventh year so I'm afraid you won't be seeing him when you come over. I told you about Harry's parselmouth ability and everybody in the school fearing him, right? Well, with his gift, he found the Chamber of Secrets; it was in a bathroom. Nargles told me, but remember, no telling Dumbledore. You promised magically._

_I'm glad you're doing well too, but you can't forget, Daddy will be happy to lend you some money, he's only uneasy around you whenever there's a full moon. So Harry's fighting what Slytherin left behind right now, he's breaking a lot of school rules, as Snape might say, and he might be expelled. I don't know, the Firebird and the Founder's gift are helping him now and he turned into a knight. I think you need to teach him magic first._

_Tom is trying out a ritual to create a Golem, the barely legal way for his thesis. But I'm sure he'll get through it, he's Tom, after all. He'll do just fine. I'll be sad to see him go, he's so smart, but he said that he'll come back and visit one day, maybe when the You-Know-Who is truly gone. He's encouraging me to shadow some Unspeakables at the DoM once I sign their Secrecy Oath. Daddy said that he'll pull strings. I think I might be one of those field agents of the Unspeakables, I would rather work outside, and it's awfully dreadful to be in the DoM._

_You'll be teaching DADA next year, that's amazing! You'll be a much better teacher than Lockhart, anyone is better than him, even Tom, even me._

_I will be waiting to hear you soon._

_Love, Luna A. Lovegood._

Part Eight

After the Battle of Hogwarts, most people were flooed to St. Mungo's where the Healers are undergoing triage procedures. The Hospital wing was plain white, sometimes; Madame Pomfrey would bustle by with another sleeping draught or bone-regeneration. There's pain in your stomach and your right arm was torn to bits, but what does it matter, you gave a sleepy smile. Voldemort was dead, it's over. A year of hell with the Carrows and it's finally over. At another bedside stood Harry who is sleeping at Ginny's bedside. You played with the hem of the blanket. You hoped that Daddy would be alright, even if what he did was frowned upon, you know he only wanted the best for you.

"Ms. Lovegood?" You looked up, "There's someone, a Mr. Riddle, who would like to see you."

_Dear Daddy, _

_I hope you stay strong at Azkaban for ten months. Harry killed the Dark Lord, he's gone forever. I can hear Hogsmeade's celebration from the Hospital Wing and it keeps me up all night and drives the Healers to their last nerves. Are you able to have any sort of intelligent conversations with any of the prisoners besides Malfoy? Maybe you can tell them about Mother's heritage with the true family. Don't listen to what they tell you about that time when I had to stay at their house with Dean and Ollivander, its all lies._

_Do you remember Tom from first year, well he's back and he offered to take me on a trip to the Norwegian lands to document animals where the DoM is acting in since with our counterparts in Norway and Denmark. I'm so excited! One chapter of my life ended, Daddy, I'll be ready to start anew. It's finally over. I'll send you weekly updates and I want you to write back! If I manage to capture a Crumple-Horned Snorkack I'll send you a picture because Azkaban guards won't allow anything else besides letters._

_**Daddy, you have to help me. Tom is here before I could even recover and run and he says he's not letting go. He's a monster. He finds amusement in suffering, he-**_

_**Ｉ ｄｏｎ＇ｔ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ ｈｅ ｗａｎｔｓ． Ｈｅｌｐ ｍｅ．**_

_Love, Luna._


	7. A Special Lesson

Before the Chamber of Secrets, there was blackmail-induced-tutoring. Before Mad-Eye Moody, there was Amadeus, before Professor McGonagall, there was Minnie, and before Lord Voldemort, there was Tom.

Warnings: Snark, Experimental Style, Present Tenses mashing into Past Tenses, OOC (if twisted friendship would count as OOC), obscure Magical knowledge (Please don't read _too_ deep into it.)

**A Special Lesson**

[Scene: An old school library. There are rows of empty tables by the shelves save for one which was occupied by a dirty-blonde, rather severe looking, extremely stressed, witch who was pouring over texts and scribbling into a half filled parchment. Footsteps approaches and she looks up. Two people- a wizard with dark hair and striking features strolls in with his head high and at his side, slightly behind him, is a nervous little boy with brown hair.]

(The witch) Minerva McGonagall [flatly]: You're late.

(The wizard) Tom Marvolo Riddle: According to the clock, it is only five past eight. But sorry if I offended you, I had found my time today to be occupied by other more important matters, Minnie.

McGonagall [not impressed]: Minerva.

Riddle [ignoring that statement]: such as and not limiting to this young fellow here. [Riddle pushes the boy forward]

McGonagall [scrutinizes the boy]: …Awfully twitchy isn't he? First year Slytherin?

Riddle [nudging the boy]: Yes yes, well, let's not be afraid of the big bad Gryffindor. Don't worry, you still have a fourth year Slytherin behind you [McGonagall snorts]. Introduce yourself, Amadeus.

(The Boy) Moody [panics]: Oh… uh, um, uh. Err, Alastor Amadeus Moody, ma'am. [McGonagall raises an eyebrow at Riddle. Moody flinches.]

Riddle [pats Moody on the back]: Don't worry; she's just cranky because she's in her O.W.L. year.

McGonagall [Irritably]: I heard that. And why his middle name? I call you Tom, not Marvolo. Amadeus will make himself the laughing stock in Gryffindor.

Riddle [easily sliding into the seat opposite of her and dragging Moody next to him]: Which is why he is in Slytherin.

McGonagall [glares and sniffs]: You know you don't have to boast about your following, everybody in Hogwarts is aware of your fans. [Riddle scowls] Showing off another initiate isn't going to change your position in anything.

Riddle [growls dangerously]: I'll have you know -

McGonagall [used to Riddle's antics, says loudly]: Moving on! [At the entrance desk, the Librarian hushes them. McGonagall pushes a thick book _Advanced Transfigurations_ in front of Riddle and opens it to a specific page. She shoots a glance at Moody who jumps in fright.] Fine, the Firstie can shadow you as long as he doesn't try anything. [She taps on a picture of a hand doing wand movements.] Let's begin with your class today; I heard that Professor Dumbledore started to introduce the concept of one object into many different animals. [She pauses, Riddle makes no response. She continues a bit more humor.] I understand you meant to split a three legged stool into three piglets but achieved three piglets with a single leg. We'll get to an empty classroom so you can try again, but you need to understand what you are missing.

Riddle [bored]: Emotions, intent, and imagination.

McGonagall [sighs and rubs her temples]: Why can't you be the charming and polite Riddle that you are in classes? I'm doing this for your own good.

Riddle: You're doing this because last year I caught you in the middle of experimental Transfigurations.

McGonagall [hotly]: They were _plants_.

Riddle: That you turned into an unknown species that were obviously the more ferocious cousins of the Devil's Snare and the Marquis' Red Bane which also, I might add, didn't shrink from the heat or light. Professor Felson had to quarantine Green House Four for half a semester. [Riddle sits back and crosses his arms, smirking at the memory] The Unspeakables are still impressed, I must say. I was this close from pulling a Life Debt from you.

Moody [in awe]: That was you? [Librarian glares at the group. McGonagall shoots Moody a look, Moody shrinks back again.]

McGonagall: How do you know about the event? This is your first day here.

Moody [shrugs]: My mother, Damaris Moody nee Lasko, is friends with Professor Dumbledore.

[Silence] McGonagall [blinks then turns to a very smug Riddle and tilts her head]: I'll bite. How much does he know of his mother?

Riddle: A lot actually, his bedtime stories were her theories, though not much of the calculations.

McGonagall: Will it be the same as talking to _the_ Damaris Lasko, the woman who was hailed as the beginning of the belief of New Magic? They formed a cult surrounding her research before Grindelwald decimated the members. [She nibbles on the end of her quill in thought.] A month back, I wrote a treatise opposing one of her arguments that it was possible to turn base metals into gold because-

Riddle [eyes half-lidded]: It is impossible to transfigure a non-magical item into gold due to gold's inherent properties to flex the magic in its surroundings, specifically the ley lines, which is why it is popular as the foundation level of many magical artifacts, specifically those in Egypt. It is also why gold is used as currency in today's banks where sickles and knuts are gold mixed with silver and bronze, which are secondary magical metals that don't conduct as well. [Riddle pauses thoughtfully] Chrysopoeia Principle, Aldelard of Bath.

McGonagall [sneers]: Nice paraphrasing. I'm glad to see that I have taught you something last year. [Riddle sneers back.]

Moody: Not if you offer your own magic into the base metal.

[Pause] McGonagall: what?

[Librarian angrily shushes them.]

Moody: Mother also said that if you can theoretically combine the circle of Druid rituals with the Modern Absorption Ritual, you can connect the flow of magic from the ley lines and into the base metal and that should be enough to turn it into gold.

McGonagall [staring into the distance]: combine rituals?

Riddle [incredulously]: You can go ahead and attempt that if you aren't afraid of the possibility of blowing up from a backlash.

Moody [shakes his head]: But what if people with mage-sight and knowledgeable of Arithmancy and Magical Theory and the Equation Balance tried it? There won't be any extra power on either side of the equation. [He looks back down and starts fiddling with his fingers]

McGonagall [looks at Riddle, who mouths 'prodigy']: Well [clears throat and stares over her spectacles at Moody], supposing that the one-in-a-million gifted with mage-sight does decide to dabble in all these subjects and not turn towards the more fashionable job of ward-breaking, you do realize you are treating Magic as an energy not adherent to any of the rules and principles that have been published in the last couple of centuries.

Moody [jumps slightly]: But that's the case, all you need is Emotions, Intent, and Imagination and you can do anything.

McGonagall [pointing out]: Human Transfiguration, it's impossible.

Moody [shakes head]: No. But theoretically, with Intent, I can force Riddle into his Animagus form because the magic used has a Forcing Intent but not a Transfiguring Intent. [Riddle raises an eyebrow and cringes]

McGonagall [grins]: …and cause mass panic within the magical scholar community?

Moody: err…

McGonagall [waving her hand]: Nevermind. But you admitted that Transfiguring Intent, apparently you can classify Intent, is not doable.

Moody: Because you're trying to transfigure wizards and wizards have their own magical core that'll resist the change in their coils.

McGonagall [Triumphantly]: Therefore Emotions, Intent, and Imagination can't do everything.

Moody [waving his arms and also getting excited]: No, I didn't say that! Because people have been looking at the equation wrong all the time! It's been the wrong equation all along! That's why instead of a successful result, there has been accidents, sometimes permanent, and potions designed for specific spell reversals. With Human Transfiguration, you have to take into account the entire core that a person has so the amount of magic you give into the spell have to equal to the amount of magic in a body and then some and its impossible without a ritual. But the ritual is impossible without the Druid principle stuck in there to take Ambient magic from the ley lines.

[Silence. McGonagall's mouth is open wide in shock. Riddle starts laughing.]

Librarian [suddenly appearing at the trio's table side]: Ahem [The three of them looks up.]

[Five minutes later: Kicked out of the Library.]

McGonagall [sitting on the stairs with Riddle]: I can't believe I was just in a heated debate with a First year about radical magical theory.

Riddle [chortling]: Bravo.

McGonagall: Pity it ended early. I have a list in my mind of other rules that I'm quite positive he won't be able to refute.

Riddle [still snickering]: He will make Damaris Lasko proud. His point on Human Transfiguration does have merit.

McGonagall [nodding and frowning]: If it was that easy, how come nobody discovered it before?

Riddle: Probably because each country is jealous of its own secrets. Since Pre-Merlin, we Englishmen, only managed to steal two Druid ritual circles from the Celts and it was only last year that Lasko finally translated one of them as the ley line manipulator. So it's quite reasonable that she thought up of this and passed the idea to her only son.

McGonagall [looks around]: Where is that twitchy blighter anyways?

Riddle: I don't think he will be talking to you anytime soon, I think you'll be the subject of his future nightmares, his Boggart. I sent Amadeus back to the dungeons with some mice to feed Obalesh.

McGonagall: Are you honestly going to keep calling him Amadeus? That's inviting too many nicknames for the poor boy. In years to come, he'll become 'Maddy' or 'Mad-Dog' or something.

Riddle [shrugs and says casually]: Amadeus is a perfectly good wizard name, no different from 'Abraxas' or 'Cygnus,' unlike 'Tom.' He has a respectable heritage and is a fifth generation pureblood, though I must say that it's nothing compared to yours. [McGonagall rolls her eyes] So I was thinking about that intense discussion you just had, Minnie.

McGonagall: Minerva.

Riddle [ignoring her]: And I have some questions about the Equation Balance of Magic. That represents the before and after of a spell, correct?

McGonagall [groaning and rubs her temples]: or anything really. Please don't ask me now, my head is pounding enough as is and I still have to O.W.L.s.

Riddle [mockingly]: Good grief, Minnie. The exams are in the spring! If you keep this up you will get more wrinkles then our beloved Headmaster.

McGonagall [gritting teeth]: Shut up.

[They have a stare down for a couple minutes before McGonagall relents. The pair walks up the stairs and down the corridors in mutual silence.]

McGonagall [defeated]: Say it.

Riddle [pleased]: Does the same Equation Balance of Magic apply to names? Because I've read up on this wide-range spell called the Taboo and it says-

McGonagall [impatient]: I know what the Taboo is.

Riddle [tsks]: Don't snap at me, you're already _feline_ enough. [He significantly pauses.] And yes, that was a threat. [McGonagall gives him a horrified look] Good girl. [McGonagall looks murderous] There are other spells to banish the fey such as saying its name backwards three times and such. So I was wondering if I can mold my own name.

McGonagall [gives him a strange look]: Tom Marvolo Riddle into a spell? Do you think Tom is too blasé for a talented and gifted Slytherin like you?

Riddle [casually]: What do you think of 'Voldemort'?

McGonagall [gives him an even stranger look]: Flight from death?

Riddle [annoyed]: Flight of death.

McGonagall: Trying to conquer death are you?

Riddle: Trying to learn all the Magic there is out there and hopefully, yes, finding a way to conquer death. Sadly this school doesn't teach all the aspects of the energy out there.

McGonagall: If you think you are going to switch into a Dark or Grey-Magic oriented school, you'll have to go abroad. Even then they'll refuse to teach you because you're a foreigner.

Riddle: How about after school? I could take on an apprenticeship in Haiti or South America. Or I could go to Egypt where the people there are pretty lenient on these sorts of things since the treaty. Or to the East, the monks there are willing to teach secrets to disciplining the mind if their pupil could find a way to find their temples.

McGonagall [surprised]: Suppose you can go for that route if you must, though many don't see the benefits in it because it takes out so much of their years. You aren't going to take over the Ministry the moment you graduate? Between the war and the nearly decimated government and your following, you have the means.

Riddle [pout]: But if I do so, you'll pack your bags and head off to your blasted cousins across the pond. What if I want you to stay?

McGonagall [flatly]: I'm honored. Really.

Riddle: But these are in the far future. I may be an ambitious Slytherin but I'm still a fourth year… [He idly strokes his bare chin] yes, there is still time. [He drifts off for a few moments. Then he stops, looks up and brightens.] And what do you know? Such a gentleman I am, I walked you back to the Gryffindor Fat Lady.

McGonagall [looks up]: So it would seem… [Leaning over to the Fat Lady, she whispers the password. The portrait swings open. McGonagall steps through but glances back. Riddle gives a jaunty grin.] Don't forget, tomorrow it's your turn to help me with DADA.

Riddle [sweetly and loud enough that some of the Gryffindors in the commons could hear]: Of course, Minnie. I'll be counting the minutes till I see you again.

McGonagall [tiredly sighs]: Don't lie.

Riddle [whispers]: Don't worry, when I take over the Ministry, you'll be at the top of my list in my dedication speech.

McGonagall [good naturedly]: I hope Obalesh slithers down your throat and chokes you. [The portrait swings close] Good night, Tom.

**End**.

Author's Note: Obalesh was Riddle's not so secret pet snake. When Riddle mentions "feline" it meant that he knew that McGonagall was an unregistered (at that time) Animagus.

I believe that before adults, there are children, who, despite their potential sadism in the future, are still children.

McGonagall probably acted like Hermione in Hogwarts with perhaps more bite in her bark. I thought that if Moody was still alive in the First War after being on the Death Lists of so many, he was probably a gifted child at Hogwarts. And of course, his paranoia, twitchiness, probably only strengthened as he lived on. Riddle probably had multiple personality fronts because of his childhood at the Orphanage. Specifically, he cultivates a reputation of a charming, handsome, brilliant young man to the Hogwarts masses. To those he blatantly uses (blackmails: ie- McGonagall and [it's implied] Moody) he shows a caustic side and doesn't bother too much with masks, which is why a year into their tutoring business, I suppose that they are… companions of a sort. To his followers, he is their leader, cold powerful, not to mention Slytherin's Heir, and I suppose that if one sticks around with him in this persona, one will get addicted to his Darkness.


	8. Woes of Those Looked Upon

Reverse discrimination in the Second Generation: the Potter kids try to cope.

Author's Note: 2nd Generation. I'm not positive on their ages but it won't make much of a difference.

Warnings: Childhood Neglect, Mild Golden Trio Bashing, Weasley Light Bashing, Multiple POVs bolded for your convenience, mild slash and threesome mentioned.

**oOoOoOo**

**Woes of Those Looked Upon**

**Andromeda Tonks nee Black** received a letter on a September morning from the family owl, Rocco. It reads:

_Grandma Mede,_

_Hogwarts is so amazing, even better than what you described! Sorted into Hufflepuff, just like Mum. I made friends with fellow Hufflepuff Tobias Smith second year and Kore Diggory fourth year. Someone from Gryffindor came up to me and asked me if I was a werewolf and I said no. Do you think Harry will be happy for me? I sent another letter to him with a school owl._

_Will write again! Teddy._

She happily tucked the letter into her steadily growing collection of Teddy Memento. There was memories Teddy's first bout accidental magic where he bent the kitchen table into something resembling a pretzel. There were moving pictures of Teddy's demonstrations with his Metamorphmagus talents, which equaled Nymphadora's own abilities. Her favorite picture was taken just a few moments after Harry Potter reinstated Teddy as the heir apparent to the Black Family. Potter's explanation was, "I am simply unable to keep my job as an Auror and attend to the duties as the Lord of two noble houses at once." Teddy, 8 years old, stood awkwardly in his formal ritual robes with neon blue hair, looking extremely out of place in the arms of his godfather with a hoard of displeased goblins behind him.

With a wave of her hand, she poured herself some tea and turned on the Wizarding Wireless. "_And that was the lovely Musica Contrare performing Beethoven's Eroica. They'll be touring in London next month, magical population only_." Andromeda stared into the other room where the entire wall where once proudly stood the portrait of Aunt Walburga had fallen by some not-so-legal blood magic. Andromeda had done the ritual with her son whom she had then sworn to secrecy. "_We have news that the Wizarding Television Network and Visual Cube will hit the markets soon by storm! Here are some tips to make sure that you are getting the best out of your galleons!_" Harry Potter didn't know, he can't know, he wouldn't understand.

Andromeda gently blew the heat away from her Earl Grey and sipped.

Thank goodness Teddy has some of his father's tact. Even at the age of 7, he knew that Grandma Mede, despite outward appearances, was different from the Potter-Weasley clan. At the age of 8, he knew that the topics that Grandma Mede was trying to subtly teach him, Wizarding families and histories, pureblood etiquette, ritualistic holidays that Hogwarts didn't celebrate after Dumbledore became headmaster, the true difference between Light and Dark Magics, and the beginning lessons on how to manage the Lordship of House Black. At age ten, Teddy knew that with the best possible luck, he will need to father at least two children, one to uphold the Family name of Black and another of Lupin. If he is to have a third, it will create the new House of Tonks.

She feared the Potter-Weasley's negative influence upon her last relative. Harry Potter was officially Lord Potter; he attended the council of Wizengamot from time to time when his schedule would allow it but otherwise had a substitute in his place with a long list of agendas and goals that he felt needed to be fulfilled: find the cure for Lycanthropy, raid the manors of many Umbras Familias to search for and to destroy dark artifacts, artifacts that were priceless and passed down from generation to generation; to prevent any new curriculum into Hogwarts that had questionable Grey tastes, to interrogate any children that was accepted into Slytherin. The Potter-Weasley alliance had saved Magical Britain from the Dark Lord; the same alliance was bent on destroying the Old Ways. It disturbed her greatly when she learned that the Potter-Weasley's were Light extremists.

The Old Ways were strictly Grey, not a shade darker, every respectable family followed them and all incoming Muggle-borns or Muggle-raised learned the values of respecting Lady Magic, of sharing this gift with each other, or at they did in the Pre-Headmaster Dumbledore era. (Which was why Lady Augusta Longbottom was perplexed as to why her darling Neville seemed to contain the smallest amount of magic in his veins no matter how much power she had lent her grandson. Who would've thought that low self-reflection could be so detrimental?)

Why annihilate tradition when it has served us so well?

Andromeda smiled grimly into her tea cup and read the leaves; she then sighed. The radical views of the Potter-Weasley alliance were quickly gaining popularity among the newly established families who weren't properly taught in the tense years between the First and Second War against Lord Voldemort. The old families have been trying to rectify that but with the exponential rate Muggle-borns are being introduced into this world and the refusal to put up any sort of 'Pureblood Culture' classes on grounds of "spreading propaganda on blood purity" it has proven to be a difficult task.

With so many Dark Families, Umbris Familiis, becoming extinct, the Old Ways were needed more than ever and the Potter-Weasley alliance was doing nothing to help. Andromeda Black was aligned toward the darker aspects as was her family, truly and wholly; Ted Tonks was a muggleborn, grey at best and free to do whatever he willed. His awareness to his freedom of magic was one of his more attractive qualities. Nymphadora Tonks was a darker shade of grey; Remus John Lupin was a werewolf, a Dark creature. Teddy was everything.

Teddy gets restless and more attuned to Dark magic at the exact three days out of a month. Teddy is a metamorphmagus, an inherently grey gift. Teddy is her sea and stars, her hope for the future, the future. Harry Potter can't know.

She does care for Harry Potter though, but she can't voice it aloud.

Lord Potter was, at one point in time, the last heir to his noble line which foretells much wealth and knowledge that has been attributed to the Potter, once Peverell, House. But… Andromeda wandlessly poured herself another cup of tea and added two sugar cubes. But… She had seen the Potter family donate untold amounts of money to many organizations and charities. She had seen the extravagant lifestyle, subtle on the wife's side, non-existent on the doting husband's, that they carried; noticeable to any pureblood but unseen by anyone who was unable to read the lines that included Harry. She can only imagine how much money Harry generously gave that Quidditch team, Chudley Cannons, in order to get Ron on as the Keeper. Harry was disregarding at least half of his Lordship duties (does he even know the Potter's family motto?), the Potter Grimoire, the only sentient book existing in Britain, would not be happy.

Seeing the predatory look on the female Weasleys' faces, Andromeda had decided that she's much too old for politics. For years after the First War, the Tonks' income was based upon her quaint _Draughts and Elixirs_ shop at the crossroads of Horizon Alley and Knockturn Alley and Ted's respectable pub, _The Black Labrador_, in the heart of muggle London. With Ted's death, she sold the pub and kept her own shop, creating Vertitaserum, Draught of the Living Death, and the likes during Teddy's naptimes or whenever she would hand Teddy over to Ted's old muggle friends to babysit. In the midst of her brews, she often wondered whether she should have called the godfather of her grandson aside and have him sit across from her at the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place and explain to him the exact reasons as to _why, despite their talents, the Weasleys were always so notoriously poor and why, in history, the previous Weasleys and Potters were not allies._

In the end, she didn't and consoled herself by confiding her fears to her grandson. She wasn't a Gryffindor, not by long ways, but a pureblood Slytherin, who had married a muggleborn Hufflepuff, who proudly bore a metamorphmagus Hufflepuff daughter.

It was she, Andromeda Tonks, not Harry James Potter, who saw Teddy off onto the Hogwarts Express, his hair and face a sickly green. She had fussed with his tie, colorless before the Sorting, and gave him some blatant Slytherin-Hufflepuff advice, "Do try to make friends with everyone in every house. It's utterly ridiculous when one cannot see the advantages of," here she paused to find the correct modern jargon, "being on everyone's good side." Her husband would be proud.

Teddy waved happily from the window of the scarlet train, his hair had lightened into a sea green and his eyebrows darkened to purple. Andromeda returned the gesture with her kerchief and, for the first time since Nymphadora passed away, she cried.

**James Sirius Potter **was 13 years old when Albus Severus Potter was sorted into Ravenclaw. "Your little brother looks a bit green, James," Vester Samuels, fellow Gryffindor, remarked, squinting at Albus as he ran towards the cheering table. Teddy had celebrated by turning his hair royal blue. The Great Hall had been momentarily stunned though they quickly recovered. It came to no surprise to him when his little brother, his darling little brother who loved to read and could hold intelligent conversations with a garter snake. Strange, that, because all James and Lily could honestly coax out of snakes were hissing, loving poems about the benefits of fat mice.

But yes, Al got sorted into Ravenclaw, so did the Malfoy that Uncle Ron always warned him about. Nobody from Mum's side of the family was friendly with the Malfoys. "Thinks that they're so higher and better than us ordinary lot," Uncle Ron had grumbled under his breath, "I won't blame you if you aim a couple hexes at his ferrety face to put Malfoy junior in his place." Aunt Hermione elbowed Uncle Ron but didn't correct him. But Scorpius seemed like a nice enough bloke, a bit obsessive with the Hogwarts' famous Restricted Section, scared of the world, and twitchy at strangers who would deign to look at him funny, but nice. It was just another thing that the adults were wrong about. Again.

He noticed that a lot recently, his parents were wrong in many things.

When James was 10, Teddy invited him to a revel on Walpurgis Night. The invitation was given via Mrs. Tonks' osprey patronus and James had scrapped both of his knees trying to squeeze out the narrow garden fence in the dead of night; but it was worth it.

It was so worth it. There were other families too, everyone conjoined as one: the Flints, the MacDougals, the Samuels, the Bones, the Tonks and the lone Potter. Bonfires erupted as different families from different backgrounds, danced and celebrated. Candles were placed on the outer borders of the revel, holding the magic within its invisible confines as the power sunk into the earth and cycled through: Earth, people, sky, Earth, people, sky… His entire body was alive; he had held onto Teddy's hands, guided by reassuring squeezes as the elders chanted and spun, the flames created their unholy sways.

Magic coursed through his veins, he could feel every individual he danced with; Magic whispered to his ear secrets of wandless and silent magic, of different spells incantations; Magic read through his thoughts, amused at his desire for excitement. He spun around the bonfire in elation, singing a song that was as old as the legend of the Lady of the Lake, a song that he had never heard before but knew on an instinctive level. He danced and twirled with children he never met before. The Magic sank to the earth to purify and then entered his blood. He lost himself in the sensations… and then...

And then- complete rejuvenation. (A dazed graduate of Hogwarts had loudly proclaimed that this was much better than any afterglow. Her peers politely coughed into their hands.) Mrs. Tonks, who had stood by the fire with a selected group of witches and wizards, had explained that this Filling Ritual, if practiced since childhood, is one of the main reasons why most magical persons live up to 250 or even 300 years of age. Mr. Bones had lamented, "Pity the Dumbledores never came back after Grindelwald's War. The younger, Aberforth, would appear at times, but Albus was inconsolable. If he had continued the Old Ways, no doubt he wouldn't have lost his nimbleness by the time he reached his 180th year of age. Why, at 180 years old, Filius was still active in the dueling circuits. He was a fast blighter, knew how to chain five Bombardas Maximas with a single Diffindo..." Mrs. Tonks had gently led the doting man away.

The next day, he was still flushed from the revelry. Mum had been worried that he was sick.

During dinner, he asked why the Potters didn't celebrate Walpurgis Night. Mum turned white, and then red till her face and her hair was one. Then she started screaming like he had never seen her before, a banshee, a hag, Aunt Fleur whenever she gets really, really, really, mad. She screamed about Dark rituals, the corruption of her own children, the plight of Wizarding Britain if it cannot control its 'other half', she demanded the identity of the one who told him about the revels and when he refused, she slapped him hard enough for him to taste blood and sent him to his room hungry and confused. Dad didn't say anything but the fact that he refused to meet his own son's pleading gaze was enough explanation. Al and Lily had snuck some blueberry pie for him an hour later. James didn't talk to his parents for three days.

After that incident, the relationship between James Sirius Potter and his parents was never the same.

The incident, however, didn't stop him from asking Mrs. Tonks a year later to send the same Patronus invitation to Albus and Lily or from sneaking out of Hogwarts along with half of the castle's population, (Head boy Clearwater leading the way) outside of the Anti-Portkey wards to head back to the corner of Beech Street and Mutatally Lane where a growing fire met him like a mother to a long lost son.

When James was 12, Teddy had invited his siblings and him to what muggles call a 'sleepover.' (Aunt Hermione thought it was really cute.) For half of the night, the four of them ate crackers and peanut butter, washed down with Mrs. Tonks' Earl Grey. They read the tea leaves and suspected that their future would bring palm trees and brimstones.

Teddy cleared his throat, which was the Tonks' way of saying, "I got something _really_ important to say," accompanied with a thorough wiggling of his pink eyebrows. The conversation dutifully navigated through bends and corners, about the squandering of the Potter fortune, of Lordships, which the three Potter children had never heard of before, of the grooming of an anticipated heir, all the while, Teddy kept repeating his mantra.

"Nobody else knows that you know, not even Grandma Mede. Don't. Tell. Anyone. I mean: don't tell anyone!"

**Albus Severus Potter** was 12 years old when Lily Luna Potter was sorted into Slytherin. No one cheered, there were many whispers and nasty looks, any friends that Lily made on the train were gone, most teachers blanched, Headmistress McGonagall's face was frozen in ice; for a moment, he truly feared for Lily's well-being. His little sister stumbled over to the table of the serpents, uncharacteristically morose. When she sat down, she gave James and Teddy pleading looks that screamed out, 'I couldn't help it!' Her face relaxed some when both his brother and adopted brother gave her thumbs up, but Albus knew that Mum and Dad won't be pleased at all.

Lily (not "Lils," sometimes "Lillian" but never "Lils") Luna Potter had been showing Slytherin characteristics since she could talk. At age six, she snuck in a coral snake into the family household ("his name is 'SssSSss,' Teddy, not 'Ssssthss', get it right.") and hid it for half a year in her clothes and a box with air holes until Mum did her yearly spring cleaning and crushed defenseless animal with the heal of her boot. During that half year, James and he finally realized why their parents wouldn't allow them near the reptile house at the Muggle Zoo, or why they never visited any pet shops.

Why didn't Dad tell them that they can talk to snakes? It's one of those important things out there that you have to tell your children. "Eat your vegetables." "You're going to Hogwarts." "Curfew is at ten." "Don't play with our wands." Albus suspected that Dad, the famous Man-Who-Survived, was ashamed of his "Dark" talent. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Scorpius said that he would give up his left arm for the gift of Parseltongue, it's a gift, not a curse.

Forbes Pucey said that he would happily give up his first born. But Forbes was crazy like that.

Lily will survive. Merlin, with the gleeful hell she has made her brothers experience at home, which involved a respectable bucketful of blackmail material and the mastery of the wandless bat-bogey hex and the mastery of the wandless counter of the bat-bogey hex, she'll be sure to rise up in the ranks. Albus was just worried about their parent's reaction.

When Albus got sorted into Ravenclaw, his parents' letters were noticeably more bland compared to the ever happy replies that James got. It was in the wording and the neutral tone. He couldn't understand: were his parents disappointed that he didn't get into Gryffindor? Didn't Dad, right before the Hogwarts Express leave two years ago, give him a reassurance that even if he was sorted into Slytherin, he would still be proud of his son? (Well, Mum was strangely quiet about the topic…) Does that mean that Dad only wanted him to get into either the Lions or the Snakes?

'Well,' Albus thought as he sipped his pumpkin juice and reached for a chicken leg, 'Only time will tell.' He bit into the meat and slowly chewed. Across from him, Nicola Zabini complained about her two younger twin brothers who would be entering Hogwarts next year. At his left side, Rachel Davis maliciously tore through her own chicken leg. At his right side, Scorpius Malfoy, was groaning about how his mother didn't allow him out of the mansion until he was done with his history essay on the fall of Stonehenge. For a Ravenclaw, Scorpius sure was lazy.

Scorpius Hyperion ("say my middle name and you can say hello to permanent castration.") Malfoy was his closest friend in the school. Albus isn't sure how he became friends with the infamous Malfoy, that family name that still carried a lot of insults and hisses about he who kissed You-Know-Who's serpentine feet (it made no sense, since snakes have no feet). As far as his memory went, the beautiful friendship began with a partnership and five dual exploding cauldrons (Scorpius got curious when Albus mentioned "Daisy chains"), all on 'accident' because someone… Malfoy… thought that Magroot was a more efficient ingredient then Clover and Albus eagerly went along with the plan. They were both horribly wrong on their calculations of how much less Magroot was needed, nonetheless, but Slughorn seemed impressed by their eleven inch essay that they had to do as punishment the next day, if the fact that he invited them to some sort of elite party has to mean anything.

Scorpius had told him, one night before the first year exams when they were raiding the kitchens (James had helpfully lent out advice on the Disillusionment Charm), "Father and mother told me, under no condition, to get into any house but Slytherin." Scorpius handed over a treacle tart, which Albus happily took, "That house is still disgraced and exiled, even after more than ten years. I can't go there, that's just putting more bad reputation on bad reputation."

Then Rose Weasley, dumb Gryffindor, decided to rat out her most hated cousin by telling Uncle Weasley that "Albus is consorting with the Malfoy-spawn, Daddy." As a Christmas present from the entire Weasley household, he got a Howler. Uncle Ron's voice was a foghorn, billowing against a cloud of students. Albus never liked Uncle Ron since Uncle Ron threw him onto a broom, something about getting his father's Seeker talents, resulting in terrified screams and a broken arm. Weasley (not "Cousin Rose" anymore) was sore that Albus and Scorpius had surpassed her in Potions and Transfigurations and somehow, she couldn't take the blow to her ego.

Professor Slughorn thought that it was all harmless fun, "Oh, the little girl is just like her mother. Why, I remember in sixth year when your father, Potter, found his finesse in potion making. Hermione was certainly a jealous witch."

That summer after his first year wasn't pleasant. Mum wouldn't look at him and would pretend that she can't hear him. Dad was silently on Mum's side. He didn't say anything, but you could just… tell.

The Potter-Weasley clan always had a gathering once a month over the dry season to relive memories and play Quidditch. During that summer, slowly and surely, the Potter children were more and more ostracized. James could still hit bludgers as well as the best of them but his infamous temper always got the best of him whenever the other children, from Molly to Fred to Rose, would gossip and speculate the 'darkness' in Albus. Hence, James didn't get along with them quite well. Albus always read books during these gatherings. Lately , he had retreated to the dark corners to avoid cousins who would mock at him and try to take his books and research away. Now, with Lily in Slytherin…

Well, Lily had always been a Slytherin in action. Mum and Dad were just too blind to see it. Or they were denying it too hard to see past the iron curtain. She was so Slytherin that Scropius was wary around her before she even stepped foot onto the Hogwarts express, even Mr. Malfoy was impressed.

Mr. Malfoy took the news of Albus and Scorpius's friendship much better than Albus's parents. Mum actively tried to prevent the old Eagle owl from entering the house. Dad just pulled him aside and said that he discouraged any relations with that "horrid Dark Family."

Uncle Ron had peered over Dad's shoulder, glaring with beady little eyes, mouthing the words, "Stupid ferret face."

But Mr. Malfoy, whom Albus had first met at Walpurgis Night, had a weary sort of resignation on his face before he gave formal greetings.

Lily has a rough school year ahead of her. Lots of student owls will be flying home that day for the news of the Sorting. And the next day, on the front page headlines of the Daily Prophet:

POTTER PRINCESS GETS SORTED INTO THE HOUSE OF SNAKES!

**Lily Luna Potter**was studying for her O.W.L.s with Leah Summerby and Esben Boot. She heard Aunt Hermione lecture to Cousin Rose about getting better scores that could "determine your future, Rose. I want you to be a smart witch, smarter than that Malfoy." Sometimes, Lily wondered if Aunt Hermione is frustrated with her position in life as a housewife of a war hero husband, caring for the children while her husband is Keeper in the unsuccessful Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons.

Last week, she had talked to Professor Slughorn about her potential future careers. She had confided that she wanted to open up a shop as soon as she gets Mastery in Rituals.

Her Head of Slytherin had pulled open her file and coughed politely into his hand before addressing her, "Well, you're goals are much different from your friend, Summerby, who told me that she wanted to open unicorn and kelpie reserves around Britain. Looking at your records, Miss Potter, I'd say you're well on your way. You already have an O in Astronomy, why I hear Sinistra wax poetry about you. You also have an O in DADA, Ancient Runes, and Potions! I truly feel honored, my dear. You are just like your namesake." Lily beamed. The Professor handed over two brochures, "A Mastery in Rituals requires a conglomerate comprehension in those subjects, I'm sure you are aware; you don't need Masteries in the individuals. It would also require an apprenticeship with Professor Winters and classes on the weekends to Gringotts. It would be one on one; Professor Winters would be delighted to have such a bright student as you. I would, however, ask that you keep up with the other topics till you take the OWLs… You have an EE in Artistry… good. An A in Charms, Transfiguration, and Herbology, I think you'll be able to pull those up to give you some better choices, though I would advise for you to stick to only one of the three. That is if you feel the need, though I know you are not like your Ravenclaw brother."

Lily scrunched her face distastefully and recalled her P in History, Care of Magical Creatures. "I'll think about it sir."

"Your career path will require new NEWTs classes with Professor Winters (you might as well think of him as a second parent now) and lots of discipline. When you're ready, years into the future, Professor Winters will cut off the apprenticeship bond and you'll have to go to the Ritual Guild to prove your skills. The Guild will be able to provide you with a starter fund for your own shop; you will be a lifelong member. The last student who passed graduated five years ago, in my house too." Professor Slughorn's smile faded somewhat, "Have you discussed this with your family?"

"Only my brothers."

"Your parents? Your father would be proud of you." Lily didn't say anything as she was absorbed in the way she was wringing her hands. The Professor sighed, "Lillian."

"Neither Mum nor Dad likes Grey magic, let alone Dark." Lily mumbled and refused to say more.

Headmistress McGonagall wasn't helpful either regarding her parent-problem, but at least she tried by sending a letter. (At least the Headmistress was excited at her career choice.) Mum sent the Headmistress back a scathing reply about how the Slytherin isn't her daughter anymore. Melisende Urquhart said that it was impossible for a Light Witch trying to sympathize with a Dark Witch.

And Mr. Snape just doesn't do 'comforting'.

He gave out advice on how to control Grey and Dark spells, not helpful ones, and usually snarled insults like "you little dunderheads, bet you can't even make a proper burn salve" whenever she can't get them right on the first try. But at least Mr. Snape cares in his own, twisted, twisted, fashion.

It wasn't fair that Mr. Snape's portrait was in an abandoned classroom and not in the Headmistress's office. Al had stumbled into the frame on accident in her second year. Headmistress McGonagall didn't even seem to be aware that his portrait had existed. Al had moved Mr. Snape to his bottomless bag and usually conversed with it at least once a day with his siblings. When Mr. Malfoy found out that Mr. Snape had a portrait, he arranged a frame to be placed in the halls of his quarters. Mr. Snape was grateful, until he saw Lily and James peering at him curiously, where he then muttered something about names and ironies.

(The Malfoys were really nice to her, they seemed to _understand _her. They just had another child, Callisto Lyra Malfoy, who is the perfect angel. Also, Mrs. Malfoy makes mean blueberry pies.)

Lily told Mr. Snape a lot after she heard that Mr. Snape, while he was still alive, had sworn to not betray any Slytherins by divulging their secrets. Lily told him that Mum sometimes 'forgets' to feed her and that her brothers had to sneak in food to her room whenever she gets into 'trouble'. Lily mentioned the times when her brothers aren't there that Mum would back hand her for any 'bad' talk. Mr. Snape's face turned stony, like he was petrified.

While Mr. Snape would listen, Aunt Luna would comfort her. Aunt Luna's hugs were the best in the world; she has a really nice singing voice too. When things would get 'too much' at home, Lily would often run to Aunt Luna's place for the night, sharing a bed with Lorcan and Lysander, as the woman would tell stories about fantastical beasts and Heliopaths. She later woke to a bright sun with Lorcan's thigh as her pillow and Lysander using her stomach as a pillow.

Al was really busy these days, NEWTs and all that. He had also set aside some time for something he called, "Pythagoras's Theory of Metaphysics and the studies of how music strengthens magical bonds." … Nerdy Ravenclaws. That's exactly what defined Al, who has NEWT Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, DADA, Astronomy, and Herbology. Scorpius, equally smart but more lazy in terms of work ethics, has NEWT classes in the same classes as Al except he traded Astronomy for History of Magic (self study), and Care for Magical Creatures. Al imagined a future where he and Scorpius would go travelling around the world, hence, the "Jack of all Trades" class makeup.

James had Mastery in Transfigurations and Ancient Runes and worked as an independent warder until he officially gained the title of Lord Potter, since the previous Lord was negligent to his duties and didn't make the Family magic happy. Mrs. Tonks hired tutors for Teddy and James to learn about Wizarding Politics so he can be capable in the Wizengamot.

Teddy, Lord Black, recently married Vivian Wood. The Weasleys weren't pleased with his decision: "should've been engaged with Victoire" they say, even though it was Victoire who broke up with him, as she decided to pursue her career in France. She couldn't handle long distance relationships.

The Potter family has more skeletons in its closet than people would care to discover. Dad goes on long missions for his job, sometime weeks at a time. Mum tries to stay out of the house whenever Dad is gone, but when Mum doesn't; well… over time, Lily learned that the Scamander's abode is the best place for shelter. James was gone as soon as Teddy extended the invitation for him to stay at Grimmauld Place. Lily knew that her eldest brother still wished for the family to fall back to its happy times, before Hogwarts. James used to stare at the old photos for hours at a time. Al's second home was the Malfoy mansion, usually making excuses about research and summer essays so that he could stay there overnight.

She was the last student in the library. Her friends had already retreated to the dungeons to get their well earned sleep. Lily looked over Luna's mother's notes on spell theory and rubbed her eyes. At the corner of the table was a letter:

_Lily,_

_Mr. Scamander was most helpful as a private tutor regarding magical animals. I cannot thank you enough._

_Scorpius._

Lily nervously nibbled on the end of her quill and penned a reply.

The end of the school year was in a month. Mum and Dad and James would be at the station, waiting for Al and her. Lily planned on announcing her career choices then, hopefully Mum and Dad wouldn't react too badly.

**Harry James Potter** wondered where it had all gone wrong. After Lily's OWL year, Ginny had casually asked her about her future plans over the dinner table. The tense yet well-meaningful family gathering turned into a disastrous screaming match five minutes in. On that night, lots of secrets were revealed: his children's secret forays with his godson to Walpurgis Night celebrations, the Old Ways, their conversations with the portrait of Professor Snape, Al and Lily's choice of friends, Andromeda teaching James and Teddy about Lordship duties, James' plan to take over the Lordship, his wife 'forgetting' to feed the children when he's gone, Lily running off to the Scamanders for days at a time. He knew that his wife favored James over his other children, but he never realized how bad it was.

In the end, Lily ran out of the house with a suitcase of her belongings and apparated with James to an unknown cottage and never came back. A few hours into that very night, Albus disappeared with the rest of his and her belongings.

Harry stared into the fireplace, nursing a cup of gin, his wife waiting upstairs in the bed, as he pondered. For years, he felt the guilt of not answering the letters of his younger two kids when they begged for love and assurance. At that time, he was unable to see past his children's chosen House and only felt that this reflected badly upon his as a political hero-Light figure. As the years passed, he noticed the distance between his children and their cousins at the Weasley gatherings and he realized, through Professor McGonagall, that they probably saw Professor Slughorn, Draco, and Mrs. Tonks as more parental figures than him.

Despite refusing to talk about the Old Ways, the Weasleys were beginning to split apart in regards to the topic. The years without Fred were finally beginning to take a harsh toll on George (Lores of the old twin soul bond) and he was confined to a private ward in a hospital in Wales where his wife and Lee Jordan tended to him. With Fleur's insistence, Bill transferred his children to Beauxbatons. Harry suspected that Fleur was teaching her husband the French version of the Old Ways. Charlie got killed years ago in a dragon accident. Percy was never fully reintegrated back into the family clan one can discern from his rows with his mother about "how come you never told me about Lady Magic…", "laughing stock at the Ministry for being ignorant…", and "my choice? It was your choice to never inform me you… you bloodtraitor!" Ron and Hermione called it, "Dark rubbish" and left it at that. And Arthur would sit in his little corner fiddling with telephone cords and pretend that nothing was wrong.

"I would think that they had your childhood, Potter." Professor Snape had sneered within his picture when Harry asked Albus to pull out the frame. "Would you like to see how history repeats itself?"

And James took the Lord Potter title? How? Well, James did prove himself to be capable, but it was a horrible shock. The Potter family magic didn't like him? Since when? _Why_? He agonized over these questions until Andromeda took pity on him and pulled him aside and sat him at the Grimmauld Place dining table and stared her long lecture… In addition, the Potter wealth, severely drained, is now in the hands of James, who's trying to remedy the emptiness of the vaults. Hours later, Harry walked out feeling utterly humiliated.

Hermione and Ron had always complained about his own children being a dark influence on Rose and Hugo but he chalked it up to childhood rivalry, especially when Lily was sorted to the snake house. Hugo, Gryffindor, seemed to get along with Albus, Rose seemed to hate Albus with a passion.

After his children abandoned the family house, Harry visited Professor McGonagall who cleared her throat and said, "Well, in history, the Weasleys and the Potters were never close, more wary of each other, especially when I was at Hogwarts. There were two factions in Gryffindor; you were on either one side or the other. There were some harsh prank fights, but no dueling. Truth be told, Albus's allies already defeated Rose's. She just has to admit it and properly surrender."

Teddy was managing and investing the Black fortune into Muggle-Magic technology. He and James, Lord Potter, were pushing for a reform of school education, back to the Old Ways. James had a following of adult Muggle-Borns and promised them better life quality and more job opportunities. James was a political powerhouse with both Lily and Scorpius's connections within the Pureblood circles and his Gryffindor valor earned him the respect and favor of many Light families. He argued that the ley lines of Wizarding Britain were losing magic because incoming Muggle-Borns weren't practicing the Old Ways and that the Purebloods were too paranoid over the Muggle-Born's nonexistent 'dirty' blood that they inbred and the rest is history. Reformations were immediately put forth in the Wizengamot and in the School Council.

Harry asked for Neville's opinions at Albus's graduation ceremony. Neville shrugged and said, "My family were never real leaders, we would pull all of our support to a head but one never came up who agreed to reinstate the Old Ways. Well, until those two. Gran's ecstatic."

"Wait, Neville." Harry choked on his tea, "You knew about the Old Ways? Even in school?"

"Of course." Neville said, watching as each graduate had their ties magically turn colorless again, "My Uncle Roderick, now the Longbottom head since Gran stepped down, drilled them into me daily." The Herbology professor squinted at Harry, "Are you implying that your Magical Guardian didn't teach you about the Old Ways? I understand if he didn't mention the Dark Ways or the Light Ways, but he had to have taught you the Old Ways. Is that why you hung out with the Weasleys? They're one of the few ancient Pureblood lines who hate the Old Ways."

"…" Harry blinked, trying to absorb all the information thrown at him, "Magical Guardian?" He parroted, "I had a Magical Guardian?"

For the first time since ever, Neville leveled at Harry a look that condescendingly asked, 'Exactly how _daft_ are you?'

The day after graduation, Scorpius Malfoy and Albus disappeared, leaving only a note: "_Planning many trips to Sub-Saharan Africa where the Tribes are still friendly. Give Callisto our love. We hope that Slughorn and Snape would be proud… and McGonagall and Mr. Scamander too. ~ Scorpius and Albus." _Within a year, rare sample potion ingredients sent by hawks and thunderbirds were heading towards Apothecaries in Britain. After a few days passed, a catalog called_ Snape, Potter and Malfoy _appeared in the daily prophet with prices set by rare plants and animal parts. Another month has passed and the trio had taken the Potion Guilds by storm.

Professor Snape had been their travelling companion, switching between Albus's portrait and a frame in the Malfoy Mansion to give a report to Draco and Astoria. Neville, at the Leaky Cauldron, was reported to have been drinking with Draco Malfoy about the achievements of the kids… no, no longer kids, but adults. Malfoy was proud that his family name was slowly regaining its positive recognition.

After a few years, Lily also graduated and got her much-longed for Mastery in Rituals and her own quaint shop in Knockturn Alley called _RIT _a tongue in cheek jab at the concept of Muggle death. RIT specialized in body rituals, embedding inanimate magical objects, such as living stones, into the skin, runic carving tattoos, astrology strength and personality ceremonies, and cheaper inheritance rituals, something that the Goblins also did but with a hefty fee. Harry looked into the shop through a window; on the far wall was a swarm of hissing snakes.

"Lily always had a passion for the moons." Luna said, dreamily, when Harry ventured the topic upon her. She was dumping a worrisome amount of sugar cubes into her tea cup, "It's flattering, truth be told. Lorcan and Lysander are very fond of her; I think they're trying to convince her to marry both in triad. And Rolf is beside himself in pride with Scor and Al."

Harry sighed as he realized that he had neglected yet another important part of his child's life, "Your husband met Albus and Scorpius?"

"Oh right." Luna said airily, "I forgot you weren't talking to your kids." Her bluntness made him wince. "Yes, Rolf is a magical creature expert himself, have been giving them special lessons, equipment, and tips outside of Hogwarts. Oh! I think it's so cute that they bonded with each other, I went to their ceremony, and they looked so beautiful. That was one of the reasons why Draco and Astoria had another child, you know."

And Harry fears that he's stuck in the past, where it was ok for Marauding Gryffindors to bully Slytherins, whereas in the present, the Slytherins are looked to as survivors to the incessant put downs by the Light 'bloodtraitors'.

While Ginny was sleeping, he snuck off to his first Walpugis Night celebration as a 'rogue' wizard and he felt it: Magic greeted him with hugs and kisses, feelings of intoxication and happiness. He stumbled back to his home after the celebrations, slipped into his bed without Ginny stirring, and cried the rest of the night for lost time and lost gifts. The next morning, he borrowed a tome on the Old Ways from Andromeda, feeling incompetent and ignorant in the shadow of the proud, smiling woman.

He learned that Dumbledore was his magical guardian and with this knowledge, he found that he couldn't look Dumbledore (the Portrait) in the eye. This wizard was the reason why he saw the world in black and white, why he didn't know the true difference between Lux and Umbra. He learned why the Malfoys hate the Weasleys. He decided to give his children some space before trying to reestablish connections; he doesn't want to become another Dumbledore.

His relationship with Ron and Hermione was still friendly, even if less noticeably so. The Potter Trio was personas non gratas among the Weasleys. After Ginny filed the divorce papers on him, claiming that "the spark has left us long ago, Harry," the other two thirds of the Golden Trio turned their backs on him.

"They," Draco said, sitting back in his chair, implying his son and Albus, "will be arriving back soon because of the recent tribal wars against the Burma magical government. Scorpius told me that they're thinking of looking for Yeti fur in Tibet. They also expressed a question regarding you that I'm not allowed to say."

Harry groaned and rubbed his face, "You win, Malfoy. Is that what you want me to say? I'll say it again for your comfort. I lost. You win."

He went home that night in a drunken stupor, expecting to see a desolate house; instead, he saw Lily and her two husbands, Albus and his bonded, James, and Teddy waiting for him in the living room. After that, everything was an amazing blur. Two people carried him to bed, after he threw up on a counter top. He was aware of his mouth rambling on and on, "saw Lily partially starved whenever came home. Didn't see. Can't see. Lils, forgive your dad? Horrible father. Horrible dad. Second chance. Trying so hard…"

Hands tucked him into bed; someone kissed him on the forehead. He closed his eyes and could only hope that when he woke up, his children will be there.


	9. His Eye

It's not the scar, it's not a connection, and it's not the Dark Lord that's giving him visions. Harry Potter is a Seer.

Author's Note: Featuring a Harry who isn't quite a lazy ass-tard! Third to fifth Year. There's a salute or two to AVPS (A Very Potter Sequel, sequel to A Very Potter Musical).

Warnings: Sort of ambiguous, zoophilia mentioned (I swear you'll miss it if you blink).

**oOoOoOo**

**His Eye**

**Third Year**

It was perhaps a couple days after Hermione dramatically stormed out of Divinations. The North Tower was completely consumed with perfume and incense, so much that the air was a hazy pink-grey, which did nothing to assure Harry of his masculinity. It smelled heavily of lilacs and burnt willow bark, or maybe rosemary. He wondered if one can get drunk off the smell since Lavender and Parvati were giggling more than usual. Ron and he sat at their usual table, which had a crystal ball, resting on folded scarlet silks. "Looks like it's going to be another one of those days, isn't it, mate?" Ron groaned. Harry nodded morosely and cracked his knuckles.

"I give you my benevolent greetings, my students." Professor Trelawney's voice drifted in before her physical self. Harry was still under the impression that she had never left the 70s and it's 'Flower Power'. "Today," she arranged herself into a pose of a Grecian statue with an arm up and her wrist slightly bent, as if she was making an important gesture. She still looked ridiculous, "We shall continue our studies and exercise our Inner Eye into one of the Seers' most favorite medium- the crystal ball."

"Blah blah blah blah blah," Ron muttered, crossing his arms and slumping into his chair. Harry sighed as he took out his Divination notebook (muggle enough to attract some weird looks) and his fountain pen (ditto) and prepared to take some notes. Even though Trelawney was loony beyond all doubt, she did, at least, know the basics of her study. One just needed to filter out the unimportant parts of her speech.

"What we have are training Crystal Balls, nothing more than enhanced standard quartz. However, if your Inner Eye developed far enough for it to be controlled, like mine, you can apply for a permit to buy upgrades of other crystals such as rose quartz, smoky quartz, amethyst, citrine, and other varieties. I have my own decent collection that I allow NEWT students to access under strict supervision. These true shrew stones are hard to find because they must be formed naturally by the heat of our mother earth under powerful ley lines. Most caverns are found in Argentina and Mexico, across the Atlantic."

Parvati "oohed" and "aahed". Ron was already asleep; Harry felt tired too, but he had enough strength to kick his friend under the table. The Divination professor continued to float like Professor Binns from one side to another.

"Different varieties reflect upon different Seers, no two stones nor no two clairvoyance methods are alike, it's quite like a wand in this case, except you can have more than one if talented enough." Harry belatedly wondered whether Hermione didn't like Trelawney because of their similar hair. "Shrew stones initiate the Inner Eye trance and it takes someone well-experienced in the field to recall their words. Unlike a prophecy, it is possible to remember. Crystal balls allow the viewer to see no more than a year into the future and cannot see the present or the past in anyway. With standard Crystal balls, which we have here," she held one in her palm and made her other hand float above it like a jellyfish, "they are the most malleable to different magics, however they can't specialize or concentrate on a single person, similar to training wands before a child starts Hogwarts."

Training wands? Harry looked around at his fellow classmates. That wasn't fair. Did Ron ever get to use a training wand? He looked at the redhead, sleeping again. Probably not.

"Last class," the wispy voice continued, "Some of you were only able to access your Inner Eye moments at a time. Today, we will use more time for each student and shall divide our total class time in two. Let's start." He heard happy clapping noises, "First one at the orb! Begin."

Harry kicked Ron again in the shin. Ron groaned and rubbed his eyes as Harry hastily tried to explain the objective before wiggling his fingers in mock anticipation over the orb.

"Ok. Umm." The redhead squinted into the foggy mass, "I see something shaped like a clover, that means," he leafed through his Divination text, "You get lucky for something. Maybe money, I think. If it's you, you'll share, right Harry?" Ron stared into the ball until his eyes watered. After some minutes passed, he pulled back, "Blimey, I can't do any Inner Eye, why are we even trying?"

"The book said that it's like trying to do wand less magic through your eyes. You have to concentrate." Harry bit his bottom lip in distaste as he stared across the quartz ball, "Not helpful at all. I reckoned it's one of those, once you get it, you won't forget, but before that, it would be bloody hard."

"I'll say." Ron grumbled. The rest of his predictions were nothing more than little fuzzy shapes in the clouds, frolicking on a cloudy mass. Soon after, Trelawney clapped her hands and it was Harry's turn to stare into the ball.

He looked at it this way and that, helplessly. Ron wasn't any help, his eyes were already glazed. Harry wiped his glasses and settled them back onto his nose and squinted, "I think I see a broom. A Quidditch position on the Gryffindor Team. Ron?" Ron didn't answer. Harry sighed, "Or maybe it's talking about me. Ok," he steeled himself, "err… I see a dog-"

"The Grim!" A voice loudly proclaimed behind him. He shouted in surprise and toppled off his chair, eliciting some laughter. Ron guffawed in his position. The Professor pulled him back to his seat, her eyes and mouth as wide as dinner plates, "You saw the Omen of Death once again, Potter! Your death is nigh! Your death is nigh!" Harry stared at her like she was a freak of nature, which she was, in his mind. The Professor gestured towards the crystal, careful not to touch it, as she said in a mystical voice, "Your predictions aren't finished. I would like to watch you continue."

As if he had a choice. Harry wordlessly turned back to the quartz ball and squinted, "Ok… So I saw a dog…" He trailed off unsurely; he looked at Trelawney, who made an excited 'go on!' motion with her hands. He stared at the orb, trying to see a familiar shape; maybe the dog would come back. It was a large dog but it looked friendly. The fog began to shift, to move, to swirl. Slowly its feelers reached out and Harry felt drawn into the swirling mass of uncompleted shapes. "There's a dog and a deer, male deer, and a moon… wait… a wolf-man. And in the corner is a rat, it is red." Why is it red? Harry looked deeper. "It's killed a lot of people."

Harry Potter didn't notice the stares that he was beginning to draw or that the entire room was hushed and watching. Ron hesitantly waved his hand in front of his face but the female Professor batted it away like a mosquito. Harry didn't respond to any stimuli. His eyes, blank and dark, were staring beyond the crystal structure; his hands were suspended in the air as if he was cupping the orb.

"A skull, green, is floating in black. It's opening its mouth, a snake slithers out and wraps around the skull and hisses, wanting to strike. The rat… The rat wants to return to its master." Witches and wizards gasped as, without warning, Harry's voice turned from treble to bass, "_The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Before the summer solstice, the servant, the traitor, will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was… Soon… soon. The rat will rejoin its master before the summer solstice…_ This is bull. This is utter bull. What am I doing?" The entire Divination classroom jumped as Harry's sleepy voice turned back to a petulant thirteen year old's.

"My dear student!" Trelawney said excitedly, waving her arms in an unprofessional pinwheel, "I believe you made a prediction and a prophecy! You are truly gifted!" Whispers and murmurs erupted between the tables, people were pointing at him. It set Harry on edge.

"Prediction? Prophecy? All I saw was foggy bits." He said, confused. More whispers, more pointing, and no explanation. Confusion quickly turned into anger. "You bloody fraud; you don't even know what you're talking about."

The bell rang. Harry took no time in gathering his belonging and storming towards the exit, the first one out of the North Tower.

**Third Year Consequences**

The inquiries and whispers didn't disappear, even through all the excitement and press of Sirius Black. Rumors seeped into every crevice of the school like a flood and owl messages were sent out by the tens each hour. Thankfully, Dumbledore had kept the whole thing semi-hush-hushed, as in, the news didn't go international. The Unspeakables did come in for questioning and after five minutes they deduced that yes, there was a prophecy.

"What prophecy? What's going on?" Harry had asked. But no one would talk to him. Apparently, there was a rule about prophets knowing their own prophecies. It was all bloody annoying if you ask him. Ron only told him about the prediction, trying to remember word for word, but could only mentioned a rat before something (magic?) clammed his throat shut. He turned purple before Harry thought it was a good idea to take him to Pomfrey's. Thankfully, Hermione acted no different and was her same bossy self, as did most Ravenclaw non-believers. The Slytherins, however, were split apart on his new 'Seer' gift. Some were hostile and sneering, clearly in denial and others were downright terrified.

Soon after, Draco Malfoy had cornered Harry in an abandoned corridor and with inhuman strength (creature blood there, Harry was pretty sure of it) slammed him into the wall and held him dangling by two hands. The Slytherin's face was ugly up close, wide, crazed eyes and his face whiter than what would be deemed healthy. "Is it true, Potter? You better not be joking about this."

Harry spat back, "I have no clue what you are going on about, Malfoy."

Malfoy snarled back, "You described the Dark Mark, you spoke of his return. This isn't funny. Do you have any idea the _gravity_ of the situation?"

"…A Dark Mark?" Harry puzzled over, blinking in thought. "What's the hell is a Dark Mark. A pock mark?" Then he gritted his teeth and said slowly, "Listen to me, you snake. I have no idea what you are talking about."

Malfoy's grip loosened on his collar. Harry patted his chest to adjust his tie. The Slytherin stepped back and stared at the other like he was the dawn of the apocalypse. "It's true… The Dark Lord will come back… Father must know of this…" Malfoy walked (stumbled and swerved from one corridor wall to the other like a man on his twentieth bottle of firewhiskey) away.

The next day, Ron found five galleons on the floor. Neither Harry nor Ron was willing to talk about that event.

**Fourth Year**

Harry Potter lived with his godfather now in the not-quite happy Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Madame Bones had questioned Sirius Black under the risk of his magic being painfully torn from him before a full Wizengamot court. Peter Pettigrew had been seen by the Aurors but escaped by the skin of his teeth and another two toes. Professor Lupin was furious. Well, Lupin wasn't a professor anymore because Snape had gone on a drunken rage about "studying the phases of the moon and how they affect our professors" before the Great Hall. And life went on.

For the longest time, the newspaper headlines went ballistic over the news of the "Boy-Who-Lived a Seer?" It was unusual since it was well known that the Potters had never given spawned anyone with any gift remotely related to the Inner Eye. Harry became Professor Trelawney's favorite student, much to his displeasure. It wasn't until after months of sub-average predictions "I'll, err, get burned, and will almost drown, I think. I'll lose a treasured possession, something red… And I'll be betrayed…. Yeah, that's all I see. Sorry," that the hype around him loosened up to treat him as a semi-normal wizard again. Even then, not only did he have to worry about death threats every year but now a looming possibility of the many wealthy families that wanted to kidnap him. Sirius wasn't too happy.

"If you pretend to be crazy all the time, people won't take you seriously." A little blonde girl from Ravenclaw helpfully told him in the hallways, "It's called the Cassandra coping mechanism. You can look it up in the library." And he did, but didn't think he wanted to act crazier than he already, apparently (just ask the newspapers and they'll sell all the rot about him as an attention-seeking brat), was. Besides, he didn't think he had enough in him to start faking prophecies. People told him that his voice goes weird that when he's making a prophecy and he can't remember any of that to get his inflexions right. And life went on.

At least, until his name appeared in the Goblet of Fire. Life came to a screeching halt, like Mr. Weasley's old Ford Angelica's head collision into the Whomping Willow; everything went downhill after that.

He was in Divinations class again, this time Professor Trelawney had given everyone their own starter pack of Tarot Cards. Ron still wasn't talking to him, so Harry was left with Neville. Thank Merlin it wasn't Parvati, who was still angry at him about the Yule Ball disaster.

Harry shuffled his deck and arranged the cards in a basic circle, "Ok." He flipped to the correct page in Unfogging the Future and read aloud, "The circle is our past and will show whatever we have or had in common. I'll place two cards in the middle which will be our shared future." Harry looked up; Neville was trembling. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes- his reputation of a Seer was still strong, he duly noted. "Look, Tarot cards only tell us the past and what we would most likely do in the future. I won't be able to predict your death."

"Your last prophecy came true." His fellow Gryffindor was kind enough to point out. "What if you-?"

"I probably won't" Harry reassured his partner. He set out the hand and started flipping the cards in no true order as order didn't matter in this simple read. Three of cups, the hangman- flipped, the seven of swords- flipped… Luckily, at the back of the textbook was a table for the Tarot card interpretation.

"We were both lonely as a child. Right?" Harry look up for reassurance; Neville sadly nodded. Harry gulped and looked back down, "They were due to bad fortune, or a Seer's fault. Uhh, our fates were already decided for us because of this Seer. One man, a wise man, knows of our fates but he won't say or take action or he's already dead. Do you understand this?"

"Kind of." Neville scrunched up his face, "No."

"Me neither. And… We both currently have an absence of love." Harry sighed as he recalled Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory. The pair of cards in the middle was still face down; he lowered his hand over them.

"Our future," Harry dramatically intoned for show and flipped them over: one cup and the grim reaper. Neville squealed in fright and tried to push his chair back, as if putting space between him and the reading will give him a shield to hide behind. Instead, he tumbled off his own chair. At once, the class's attention was on the two boys.

Again, Harry didn't notice as he stared at the pair: a cup and a grim reaper. He didn't hear Professor Trelawney excitedly hush the remaining students who were still whispering, he didn't hear someone nervously call out his name; it was just him and the two cards that morphed into his eyes, trying to tell him… warn him… "_The Dark Lord will rise after the Grail is tainted. The servant will revive his master who will call forth his followers and they will bow and beg for forgiveness. Blood is needed by the Chosen and one of the four will leave the mortal realm forever. The Dark Lord will rise after the Grail disappears."_ Harry slumped forwards and had to be taken to the Hospital Wing where it took him a week to recover.

**Fourth Year Consequences**

The Unspeakables arrived again with a prophecy orb (it read "H.J.P. to Co."). Once the again, Hogwarts was in a complete tizzy and this time, there were two other schools making their interests known. Karkoff had fled into the night the day after Harry was released.

"Iz it naturale?" Fleur had asked curiously as they lined up before the third task and its tall hedges. The other two champions pretended disinterest but they were bad actors.

Deciding to answer her (it'll take his mind off those Blast-Ended Skrewts) Harry shrugged, "I can't control it. I think with these predictions, they're only given out as a warning because no one can change them. That's fate. You can only alter destiny." He was inwardly bursting in pride that he wasn't tripping over his tongue before the part-veela. "It's not an advantage at all and all it's really done is raise my grade in a stupid class and prevented me from entering in the Wizarding Lottery or any gambling station."

"Vee had Zeers á Beaubatons but not for many yearz." Fleur said thoughtfully, "Are all your predictions finé?"

"I think the whole shoddy thing is vague." Harry scowled at the air, "I looked back at my prediction-journals and I realized that even when I was pretending, I was still true to some extent but only with certain interpretations. The small predictions are always true but useless because they could mean anything. Sometimes, death isn't even death."

Ludo Bagman cleared his throat and the conversation died.

**Fifth Year**

Cedric died; Lord Voldemort returned again, thanks to Wormtail. Fudge denied the existence of the returning Dark Lord for the longest time but the new wave of Harry-followers had placed a damper on his campaign against the Boy-Who-Lived. Reading the newspapers in Sirius's old bedroom, Harry had to admit that it was very amusing. The wards around Grimmauld Place were upgraded. Harry also learned about an Anti-Voldemort group led by Dumbledore called the Order of the Phoenix at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore had wanted the headquarters to be at Number twelve but Sirius had vehemently refused and that led to some cold relations between the two. "In my house? People coming and going and my godson here? No way. Fidelius Charm my arse, not unless I'm secret keeper." Sirius had muttered after the argument with the Headmaster as he ate his breakfast, "With Molly here? And Snivellus? No. Way." Remus had sat at the table and turned a page of the Daily Prophet and made an 'hmm' noise. Harry drank his milk and at his cereal separately and laughed as milk dripped through his nose.

Nothing much went on over the summer; Harry stayed indoors the entire time and got whiter because of it. Sirius told him that at any given time, there were only eight Seers between the East Coast of America and Britain and any colony that still practiced the same branch of magic. Most were hidden away by jealous families and looked relatively normal until they were near any source of scrying. Any normal wizard or witch could delve into Divination but it took a true Seer or Prophet to make prophecies. For his birthday, Sirius and Remus gave him an Agate crystal ball, opaque all around and a nice coffee table decoration. Harry was touched.

Headmaster Dumbledore tried to prevent him from returning to the class due to "his needed safety" but a lot of things were riding against the Supreme Mugwump. For one, Harry didn't particularly agree with the Headmaster's opinion; actually, not many people agreed with the Headmaster's opinion (after all isn't that what's Divination was created for?). Professor Trelawney raving about the matter during lunch and how her most prized student wasn't allowed his full potential didn't help Dumbledore's matter at all.

The new DADA teacher was Professor Umbridge, sent over by Minister Fudge. She was about as pleasant as poisoned honey. "No prediction today, Potter? It's hard, I understand," she cooed as he wrote into his own hand before the entire class, "to be modest." Malfoy snickered until Harry gave him a super-dirty look.

When the Weasley twins pranked Umbridge with a hoard of fireworks just as Umbridge was about to interrogate him with drugged tea, Umbridge had ran out of the office without a second glance back, and Harry squinted into her finished cup.

Apparently, her very near future foretold sexual coitus with horses. …Kinky. But that hasn't happened yet.

As Uncle Vernon would say, "No funny business" happened until his OWLs. His exam didn't go so well since he was quite sure that the old man sitting across from him would die a watery death before the month was over. He couldn't get any other decent prediction from his cards. But at least his theoretical part of the exam went reasonably well. Then the examiner brought out the scyring pool.

Harry looked in at the watery depths and touched a single finger to the water and watched as it rippled in a perfect circle. He took a deep breath as if he was about to plunge through a pensive, and looked in. This time, he caught himself halfway through his trance. It was like an out of body experience, he was watching himself using clairvoyance. It was like going out into the ocean without pulling any struggle against the waves, he allowed himself to be taken away by the old prophets.

"Trees… Snakes… A Diadem, a locket, and a cup. Seven souls… Seven soul parts." The examiner's head shot up in horror at this phrase but Harry was too gone to notice. His voice dropped to a wispy level, he was almost humming as another prophecy emerged from his lips. "Key information that hasn't been passed to the right people, so Magic decided to repeat it once more… _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_…"

Harry shook his head and smiled apologetically at the examiner, feeling faint and exhausted. His smile faded as he saw the horrified look on the man's face, wrinkly fright. Then he noticed the silence in the Great Hall. "Oh bugger, I did it again didn't I?" The Unspeakables were already on a first-name basis with him. With that, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped face-first into the scrying bowl.

Around him, chaos erupted.


	10. Burning Phoenix

Harry James Potter's stay at Azkaban and then some.

Author's Note: No definite pairings. It's really short. The structure of this is sort of like one of _esama_'s stories where one sentence is one story (that author is as awesome as prolific). This story is also inspired by the essays and stories of Nietzsche and Kafka. I don't own Harry Potter. I took a quote from J.K. Rowling regarding Dementors. I took a sentence from Wikipedia.

Warnings: Dark, slight OOC, AU, Harry unlawfully sent to Azkaban- story, bad grammar.

**Burning Phoenix**

1. The owls came to families across Britain bearing newspapers with the headlines: "**Hadrian Jameson Potter- Sentenced in Azkaban for Two Life Terms: Oh How the Might Have Fallen!**"

2. Harry screamed every time the creatures past by his cell as his worst memories came back to the forefront of his brain until he simply damaged his voice and could scream no longer.

3. Truth be told, the food wasn't horrible since the cooks do cover all the basic food groups, it was the lack of space, the weight of the chains on his limbs, the screams of the other prisoners and the effects of the Dementors, that were his punishment, and oh, how they affected him.

4. He was distinctly reminded of Sirius who had kept his sanity by turning into his animal form, then he was reminded that Sirius had died not days before his own arrest, then he was reminded that he had not learned how to access his animagus form and that he might as well wait for the day he turns into a new breed of Lestrange-mad.

5. It was a little known fact that five people in the history of the Wizarding World have been sent to Azkaban on false charges: the first two had been released thirty three hours after by enacting an old pureblood law in a bid for a trial, Hagrid was released months after his incarceration, Sirius had stayed as a grim for the majority of his stay, and then there was Harry…

6. Harry finds himself in a state of immovability, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to act.

7. He finds himself swallowed in Zen with absolutely no responsibilities that came with authorities to do well in his studies or to save the Wizarding World from Voldemort and felt content, at least until the Dementors arrives with their daily rounds.

8. It is an absence of being able to envisage that one will ever be cheerful again, the absence of hope; that much deadened feeling, which is so very different from feeling sad.

9. Dementors prey on happiness but they don't prey upon catharsis: pure absolute destruction of emotions where Harry felt himself so very empty.

10. One night, he laughs and laughs, hoarse wheezes erupted from his throat as he found his own situation immensely funny though unsure why.

11. He laughs until the Dementors arrive, where he then promptly throws up over the side of his cot until he was dry-heaving blood.

12. The next day, the mess is gone, leaving an off-colored stain at his feet that lingers an acidic scent; he doesn't laugh any more.

13. The waves crashed against the prison every second, the rate depending on the turbulence of the seas.

14. It is only after perhaps the sixteenth lightning and thunderstorm that he gave up trying to count the days he had been here.

15. It came to the point where he stopped caring for people he used to care about, it came to the point where he nearly forgot what his charges were, something about attacking a Ministry Official

16. Oh right- Umbridge.

17. Then he realized that with all that Umbridge had done, he shouldn't have gotten two life terms as only the worst criminals have only received one life term at most.

18. Oh right- Fudge.

19. Then, Harry stops caring again.

20. He dreams of his parent's death, of Sirius' death, of Cedric's death, of the pain that came with the blood quill, of pain that came from close contact with Voldemort, of Voldemort's laughters, of the hungers and punishments he had to endure with the Dursleys.

21. The Dementors past his cell, his body convulses, but no sound comes out of his open mouth.

22. He wonders about why Dumbledore hadn't made efforts to take him out of this hell hole - wasn't there this prophecy he was supposed to fulfill?

23. "Will you let me take him?" Dumbledore asked the Dementors with his Ministry-issued pass in his hand and his heart sank when the creatures shook their heads.

24. Dumbledore went to bed with the sibilant hissing of multiple voices in his heads, "_You gave him up, Sorcerer; he is ours."_

25. Then, Harry stops caring about Dumbledore.

26. He watches the Dementors from his cot underneath the barred window, watches their bony black arms slip in his meal, watches their mouths open to find any shred of happiness that he had developed, he watches the head of the group, the one with blue trim on its tattered robes, holding a blue lantern, swing the light in his direction to make sure that he's alive and there.

27. He believes that at times, he does go raving mad, long enough to relieve boredom, he just can't remember his fits.

28. During particular nights, he curls into himself from the freezing ocean breeze that howls into his room and finds that the fetal position does nothing to help his body conserve heat.

29. He wonders about his friends and what they must think about his situation and wish that they had sent him letters, but then he is reminded of the fact that he is a high-security prison (like Sirius) and he isn't allowed to receive letters.

30. Soon he stops caring about his friends.

31. He watches his bones on his wrists and legs and his ribs become more and more pronounced.

32. The Auror guards refused to talk to him when they do their rounds past his cell, perhaps on a basis that they were unsure how to address him.

33. Harry listens to the roaring seas; they had a calming effect upon him.

34. Then, he realizes that he can't hear Voldemort anymore.

35. "Empty your mind, Potter," Snape had once said- the memory makes him bitterly smile.

36. He learns that surprisingly, Azkaban prisoners were always silent; it was only the newcomers who screamed.

37. Azkaban prisoners shows silent respect towards one another, in this realm where time is fluid, where they are forgotten, where they are all suffering in same circle of the damned; but at the same time, they know that should they leave this place, nothing will change, villains will continue to act like villains, if slightly more hollow.

38. He becomes numb to his worst memories; the Dementors seem to notice this too- he begins dreams of every single time he felt wrath- any feeling of wrath he had at the Dursleys, any wrath towards his peers: Justin Finch-Fletchley in second year after the disastrous dueling club, Diggory, initially, in fourth year, Umbridge and Dumbledore in fifth year, Snape and Malfoy every year.

39. Then the ensuing overwhelming guilt in him feels worse than having his happiness sucked out of him and it festers inside of him like an open wound.

40. He had heard from his aunt that the best way to clean flesh wounds was to douse it with alcohol and to bear the searing pain: no matter how much pain there was initially, the wound wouldn't get infected and would eventually close.

41. Harry applies that idea to his pit of guilt.

42. One day, an Auror guard throws him a two week old article of the Daily Prophet- Harry stares at it blankly for a couple of seconds before throwing it back.

43. He gets up and walks around his cell, he stretches occasionally and does push-ups and crunches whenever he feels the urge; however, he resists the urge to decorate the walls with little pictures because the only viable ink he has is his own blood.

44. Once, on a whim, he licked the walls and tasted salt and was unsure whether it was from human sweat or from the sea.

45. Finally, he tries to talk and manages to croak.

46. "Slaugh Sidhe," he rasped at the beings that paused in their walk and turned, collectively, to stare at him, before continuing on.

47. One night, the Dementors placed a thick fleece blanket next to his meal.

48. "_We are," _a Dementor stretched out his hand through the bars, "_past sinners, welcome in neither heaven nor hell, nor in the Otherworld, rejected by the deities and Earth itself."_

49. And then he dreamed of all the times he was too slothful to better himself, to prepare himself against a world that declared him hero.

50. He dreamed of all the times he was prejudiced against Slytherins and brash in his actions.

51. Then, he dreamed of all the times he felt vindictive pleasure when he witnessed another get hurt or humiliated: the guilt was an animal eating his innards, growling and laughing.

52. "_Light or Dark- everyone is a sinner."_

53. He screams.

54. "_Queen Mab has given us hope, if we give retribution to the guilty on this island, pull them through trials, if enough people are clear of sins, we can move back to the Unseelie Court," _the Dementor breathed out an off white fog of sorrow.

55. _"We have saved some who have died within these walls but those who are released are unchanged," _Harry listened to the stories with awe, treating them like fantasy novels.

56. One morning, Fudge entered Azkaban with an entourage of high ranked Aurors, intending to seize the Boy-Who-Lived to battle and win against the Dark Lord.

57. An hour later, he reemerged with wet pants, raving mad, with a clear absence of Harry Potter to show to the public.

58. A couple months later, Voldemort attempted to curry favor with the Dementors but received only promises for neutrality and the non-negotiable refusal to hand over the Boy-Who-Lived.

59. And still, prisoners arrived at Azkaban, but prisoners began to stay at Azkaban.

60. Perhaps the Light side needed its Savior- it was not Harry's worry as anymore.

61. Every time the Dementors passed, he felt every impurity within him revealed, every horrible action, whether big or small, was bared witnessed to and judged by an impassive eye.

62. _ "It takes so much time to work upon one with so much sin but when the sin is gone, there is a human being who is tasked with a job," _there was a click in his cell, "_Come, you are to be the next warden of our den," _and his door opened.

63. Aurors, Azkaban supervisors and elf housekeepers fled from the island in droves, abandoning their jobs and pay with their tails between their legs, refusing to speak of what horrors they saw there.

64. Repeated attempts to regain control of Azkaban had failed; the island becomes a dark spot on the map, the topic that no one wishes to talk about, a taboo.

65. _"_Why?" Harry asked puzzled.

66. "_Child of Prophecy, touched by Death, a potentiality to become its Master," _the Dementor replied, "_It would be an honor for you to guide us."_

67. "_There is, however, one last taint within you,"_ another Dementor wearing a tattered cloak with blue trim, one Harry recognized as the lantern bearer, roughly pulled him closer and took his mouth with its own: Harry felt something black and malicious rushing up from his throat and flying into the dark being's mouth.

68. "_A soul fragment that was not yours,"_ the Dementor murmured, pushing Harry back, causing him to stumble awkwardly into the bars of a prisoner's cell, "_come, no wizard can take you from us._"

69. He feels lighter, as if the weight had been pushing maliciously against his conscience was gone; should he ever look into a mirror, he would see that his lightning bolt scar was beginning to fade.

70. "_As a warden, you will direct the cleansing of half of the worthy souls, we will eat the other- you will serve till you die- the cleansed souls will be released as different persons but will ultimately serve you; such is the way of your job until you die."_

71. "_Come."_

72. And Harry went and blindly follows them into the darkness.

73. He doesn't care that the soles of his feet nor his fingertips would be forever black by the soot, he doesn't care that his skin will always retain that pale glow from the lack of sun, and he paddles from one cell to another, guarding his domain.

74. The Dementors are his Cereberus; they discourage outsiders who aren't worthy to be cleansed by swirling the outside perimeter, daring to go as far as the wards of the ancient prison can protect them.

75. Prisoners who come to Azkaban stay in Azkaban, at least in the public's eye.

76. "Please, I have kids, two little darling girls," a prisoner, filthy tattered prison garb, red eyes with yellow lining, disheveled, uncut hair perhaps once blond, had moaned as Harry walked by.

77. "Liar," Harry whispered hoarsely as the knowledge came to him as easily as air; he breathed in the man's memories, happy, sad, tainted, and evil, "I know who their real father is and what you did with them for your own pleasure."

78. Prisoner 32534-8, Faulkner Lestrange, moaned in pain; within a few months, he began laughing as if there was nothing funnier in the world and the other prisoners looked upon him with distinct fear and trepidation, thinking, 'Is that going to be me next?"

79. Faulkner Lestrange was the first to be cleansed, an apathetic soul light and unfeeling and curiously untainted from the sins of the world, and released back into the chaotic world outside of Azkaban.

80. Seven days later, a letter comes to Harry, carried by a black butterfly offering him congratulations on the start of his work- from Queen Mab.

81. _"Well done, Warden," _they hissed in glee, _"We are on the road to progress."_

82. A sentence to Azkaban is as bad, if not worse, than sending a convict through the Veil.

83. Harry is a skeleton with a barely passable human visage with burning green eyes, covered with a ratty cloak.

84. Harry is on the roof of Azkaban, surrounded by a hoard of Dementors, overlooking the rough waters of North of Europe.

85. "_Do you see the potentiality, Warden?"_

86. He sees that the Wizarding World has imploded, that Voldemort has begun to kill off the muggleborns and squibs, that the muggle world had declared war on the Wizarding world.

87. He sees lost souls and fixes them.

88. _"_Yes."

89. Years and years later, when the last prisoner is fixed and released from Azkaban, Harry gives out the orders and his followers each bring back one that mirrored their past soul.

90. It makes Harry smile wider than what would be considered normal for a human being when he sees in the exact same cell what he calls in his mind Faulkner Lestrange II moaning, "Why do you do this? I have children to feed…"

91. And the cycle continues and his family grows and lightning flashes across a black sky.

92. He agrees to the adage, "Everyone is a sinner."

93. He remembers every single soul he had painfully purged as if they were his family, Light, Grey, and Dark such as Yvonne Abbot, Mercedes Boot, Ezekiel Sebastian Malfoy- they all serve him now, creeping in the shadows of society seeking potential souls, the Society unaware of their presence as they serve the role of bystanders, the background people, and the crowds.

94. The purged souls live in Zen-like peace, a sort of peace that is content and satisfied, one that can't be reached through normal means.

95. Years and years later, when Voldemort and Dumbledore were long dead, when the Bones line had merged with the Bodes, when the Ashmore and Ravenclaw family had reemerged, when people out there had forgotten his name, the being that Harry becomes integrates itself into myths and legends of old, whispered from one generation to the next, "Beware of he that steals sinners: servant of Queen Mab, commander of the Dementors, the Warden of Azkaban."

96. Years and years later, he realizes that the rhythms of the waves beating upon the walls of his fortress and the constant sea spray is soothing to his own heart (he still has one, he checks every night) along with the feeling that he has a role in the world.

97. _"One day, we will be finished, it will take centuries, but that is a day that will come," _they speak with wistfulness, it's the most emotion Harry could ever attach them to, _"and when we finish, we will be reunited with the courts; Queen Mab will adore you."_

98. _"Harry will never leave us," _they whisper, circling around him as they reached out to brush against him; he doesn't refute their statement and he looks forward to the future.

99. He is a burning phoenix; he was at the bottom of the pit but was saved by creatures that were considered despicable, he makes a bed of ashes from his own body and rises again.


	11. Allies or Partners

In which Severus Snape discovers George and Fred Weasley's innate talent at Potions.

Author's Note: AU in the year the Chamber of Secrets was open. No romance. I don't own Harry Potter_**.**_

Warnings: AU, Slight spoilers, Definitely Epilogue Non-Compliant, Bad Grammar.

**Allies or Partners**

_One day in Hogwarts_

"What do you think you two are doing?" was the sibilant hiss that made Fred and George Weasley freeze in mid stir. As one, they turned to look at the dark figure standing in the doorway of the abandoned girl's bathroom on the second floor. Professor Snape's glare was as potent across the tiled room as it would be if one was standing a mere foot away. His glare intensified when one boy elbowed the other, as if cueing him to sprinkle some pulverized powder into the simmering cauldron, causing the volatile liquid to sprout off large bubbles that popped black gas.

"…OWLs," was the non-intelligent reply from the left, who winced as he heard Moaning Myrtles wails from the third toilet stall.

"Because we adore your class, sir," the other said haltingly as he waved his wand frantically to cast an air circulation charm. Snape took a discreet sniff, not hazardous, and with a few strides, he was glaring at the concoction directly over the shoulders of the twins, who jumped at his sudden presence.

The man tsked, "Students are not allowed to brew alone…"

"We're not brewing!" The right one said indignantly.

"We're experimenting." The left spoke as if that made the difference between wrong and right. There was an awkward pause between the three of them as they contemplated how much worse the latter sentence was than the former. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, dully unimpressed. The twins gulped: at times they were the most infamous pranksters of Hogwarts since the whispered legends of the Marauders, but at times, they would rather not be expelled from school. Merlin knows how hard Mum would tan their hides. With the petrification of a few students and the bloody writing from the so-called Heir of Slytherin (not to mention dear Ginny acting like a total sod at mornings and a cry-baby at nights) it was no surprised that everybody, especially staff were more jumpy than usual in an expel-first-ask-questions-later manner.

"Do you realize the mortal peril you both are in at this moment doing this without knowledge or supervision?" Snape muttered icily, waving his wand in a manner that mimicked Pomfrey's diagnostic charm, reading the runes and numbers that appeared a few feet above the cauldron. With another wave, the cauldron, its contents, and even the logs underneath the made the fire were vanished in the midst of dual cries and protest. "Fifty points from Gryffindor." The twins clicked their jaws shut sullenly.

At that moment, Moaning Myrtle decided that now would be the perfect time to throw a fit and have three toilets simultaneously explode in a spectacular, pungent fashion. The twins warily watched as the Potion Professor developed a tick at the corner of his jaw as they mentally communicated and thought up of tortures and detentions that Snape will make them live through. Maybe he'll string them up by their toes and leave them there. Maybe he's in with the Heir of Slytherin and turn them into stone. No wait, he has a wand, he can do that anyways.

"First of all," a quick flick of the wand, the twins were thrown back by an invisible force and unable to move any part of their body neck down. Being Gryffindors, they had the audacity to glare back with every fiber of defiance that they contain in their little fourth year bodies but Snape could tell that even they hesitated when he walked evenly towards the pair, "I need to know whether you are merely fools or also thieves."

"What?" They shouted in unison, personally insulted by the accusation. Snape maintained his expressionless face.

"Weasleys are honorable," the left one declared, struggling against his invisible binds.

"Weasleys are proud of their honest living," the right one continued.

"Weasleys never steal," they finished together.

"Are you sure?" Snape sneered as the two redheads bristled at the hinted insult, "Boomslang skin is not only a restricted commodity but also rather expensive. It has disappeared suddenly from my private stores and don't think that I do not keep an eye on the student cabinet, I've noticed somebody take the lacewing flies, Antimony, Sal Ammoniac, fluxweed and other ingredients known to make-"

"Polyjuice Potion?" the Gryffindors asked in tandem and in confusion.

"Why would somebody want to drink that horrid-" the right one said before his brother glared sharply at him. "I mean," the Weasley forced his voice to calm and tried to address the adult with courtesy that he usually didn't give out freely, "it's impractical, professor, because it works for only an hour and very easy to mess up." The Potions Professor listened for the tone and the wording of the twin's responses and rolled his eyes. They didn't steal from him that much was obvious, so the thief was still out there, unpunished within these walls. But there was this new worry that they _had_ brewed Polyjuice sometime in the past. The Weasley seemed to have also come to this revelation and vainly sought for another mode of backtracking, "I mean: we were experimenting with different alternatives of Boomslang skin, sir."

Ah, out of the frying pan and into the fire. "You're not helping, brother," his companion muttered.

"The pit you are digging for yourselves grow by the second, boys," The professor smiled mockingly; his smile quickly faded as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "I'm not even going to attempt to ask you when you tried to brew that OWL level potion."

"Nicked a bit of ingredients from Mum's storage before first year," the left one said smugly, recalling the fond memory.

"Thought we might need it but they all went bad before we could use them. Didn't realize the shelf life," the other said sourly. Thank Circe, they would probably have taken to sneak around in the other House's commons or even worse, use a staff's hair for nefarious means. "Still, Mum never found out, it was a plus."

And the Prewett's blood still breeds true. Snape thought, staring critically at the two miscreants before him. Prewetts were known for magical twins and potions prowess, as many of their members went on in their lives to become Potion Masters of Mistresses. He stared hard at the twins till they started squirming uncomfortably in their spots. He idly formed an invisible barrier to prevent the toilet water from reaching them and cast a _silencio_ at the toilet stall where that blasted whiny ghost was sniffling. There were many questions that begged to be answered that were swirling around his head, each demanding to be first. Finally, Snape settled on one, "experimenting with Boomslang alternatives?"

The responses switched from one twin to the other ever five or so words- it was one of the headaches one has to endure when dealing with magical twins. In the end, he managed to summarize it despite the repeated cut and paste report he received, "For prank ideas, you see, perhaps not an hour long transformation but a tad shorter. We got the idea when somebody began killing all the chickens and roosters outside, drove Kettleburn mad, that, and so we thought, what if we transformed people into chickens. There's this muggle expression of cowards and chickens, right? I guess that came from this thought that one squawks out of fright or something. Merlin, that would be bloody embarrassing and bloody funny. Ok, ok, not funny. Right. …Err, anyways, we realized that chickens don't work but canaries do!"

That would be reasonable- canaries were bred between some magical creatures by the monks in the seventeenth century and sold to muggles as charmed pets who then proceeded to abuse the privilege and use them as guinea pigs in the coal mines. Chickens, on the other hand, were an animal that held not a drop of magical blood between their entire populations. The Potion Master felt another migraine at the back of his head. The Weasleys were talking earnestly enough; Snape didn't think that a minor mental probe was needed nor Veritaserum though there was a small vial for emergencies in the inner pockets of his robes. They held the legendary Weasley characteristic: the love to tinker, that much was obvious.

"The product is still in the works, but we're hesitantly calling it… Canary Creams. It has a ring to it that would surely attract the customers. Guaranteed to turn the user into a giant canary for at least a minute and guaranteed to turn yellow. It was bloody hard to isolate the color, took us about two months but the results are wicked." The right one gushed with delight, "The only problem is that the user will tend to squawk at random times for the next week or so. We've been varying the speed of the stirs when we finally add the canary feathers, picked on the new moon mind you, instead of Boomslang."

And that was the perfect example of potential, untapped talent going to waste on frivolous gags to turn people into a giant, yellow avian… honestly. Snape waved his wand and the twins found that they could now move everything above their torso. Even though he had allowed more freedom of physical mobility, that doesn't mean that the interrogation was anywhere near finished. "That still doesn't explain that monstrosity that you were brewing minutes ago."

"We had the right safety equipment!" They protested.

"We didn't steal any ingredients, had to owl order them from Sluggers'."

"Delivery's expensive."

"Not to mention one of the biggest hassles."

"It's like this," the left one said patiently, "We needed to make a variant of knockout-drops but one that makes the user look like they were getting fevers and about to faint. Once you take a dose," he clapped his hands together, "into the Hospital Wing you go. We were," the Weasley cast a discreet look at the Professor, "going to extract the active ingredients and isolate the fumes to create an antidote."

"It looked to me like you were going to make biological warfare," The Slytherin Head of House snapped back.

"Fainting Fancies," Weasley replied with a hint of bravado, "We were going to call them Fainting Fancies. The Belladonna and crushed potato leaves would counteract each other if both are soaked in pure alcohol for five minutes, just like when one mixes Aconite and asparagus berries, Professor, on a full moon."

"Congratulations, you're knowledgeable enough to apply Gaunt's Fortieth Law to practical trial and error." Snape muttered. The twins were unsure whether he was being sarcastic or grudgingly impressed but took the words with a positive light, after all, they only had fifty points taken from their House; they had been expecting detention for possibly forever from Snape. Encouraged, the left Weasley continued to chat about their results.

"But we couldn't just grow Belladonna or Aconite in our backyard, Mum would blow a gasket. But we did grow Panthercaps and Fly Agaric in our pockets. Had to beg Charlie to do the spell, but it was worth it. We tried substituting some plants with fungi and found that you can get rid of the volatile effects of the fungi spores by mixing the pulverized fungi with equal amounts of Aloe Vera paste and Kneazle saliva which when incur…"

Professor Snape was now staring at the twins with an unreadable expression on his face. He would have to make the calculations and consult theory texts to confirm the truth in the twin's words but it sounds rather credible at this point. Kneazle saliva was known to become twice as potent in the presence of a plant based magic category group which Aloe Vera most certainly was a part of and can diminish fire-based, combustible characteristics on an intrinsic scale by pushing those specific properties out to protect the potency of the paste. ("…pletely wicked but not really what we wanted. So we put the fire on simmer and used bluebell flames since we know that their magical properties fuel the potion but give off no heat, right? But it went too well and we had to find a counteract for cinnamon which was impossi…") Fungi based potions were unpopular amongst the magical Britain though were making a comeback in America who's increased demand of European fungi was due to the extra muggle-chemistry curriculum they had placed for NEWT potion students. Most masters, however, were not inclined to suddenly learn alien topics such as multi-cyclic peptide structures of amatoxins and phallotoxins.

Temporarily ignoring the fact that the previously thought dunderheads were sprouting off topics that no fourth year should ever be able to grasp, his mind latched onto a revelation that made his entire body go numb.

He asked slowly and deliberately, "Do you taste your creations yourselves?" When the twins nodded, Snape suppressed the urge to groan. Years and years of repeated oaths to make sure that his students are safe from potion hazards and this has been going on under his nose. "How are you two still alive?"

"We knew we weren't going to die." The right one looked affronted; the left one crossed his arms trying to look intimidating. "The bartender at Hog's Head supplies us with a lot of bezoars. Bribe him with Aunt Muriel's old recipe of spicy Fire Whiskey. Bezoars can counteract any fungi-based poisons. It wasn't like we were boiling the potion and then adding essence of eel eye, right?" Snape felt the urge to wring their little necks for their brash attitudes towards their personal research. Boiling the potion and adding the eel eye would not only make the potion more concentrated but would triple the potency. Did the twins enjoy playing with their own life lines?

There was a prevailing silence between the three of them that reeked of awkwardness. The silence was as obvious as Parkinson's fake eyelashes, as Diggory's elevating social status, as the near explosions and close calls every time they brew, as the potion stains on Snape's hands and the potion grease and fumes that shine in his hair. The stains on the hands were inevitable for any brewer but the shine can only come from Masters who have been brewing mental potions, such as Wolfsbane, for an extended period of time. "Are you going," one began hesitantly and the other finished rushed, "to give us detention?"

The smile on Professor Snape's visage wasn't quite a smile as smiles should never be able to induce a panicked shiver in those who see them. "No." He said simply. The twins brightened up and their shoulders slackened; they couldn't believe their luck- rule breaking and potion analysis without supervision and they are basically getting off scot-free! "You two are going to become my apprentices."

Cue sound of a Ford Angelica crashing into the Whomping Willow.

The world tilted: the owls in the Owlery hooted in alarm. The Weasley twin's eyes widened to the size of Bludgers. "What? No way, we can't-."

"Yes you can. …And you will." Snape added as he waved his wand one last time, the redheads felt their invisible bonds completely dissipate and appreciated the unspoken chance the professor gave them to refuse and walk away. Yet they sat there and eyed him suspiciously.

"Why? There are other potion students at Hogwarts." They pointed out.

That was something Severus Snape had thought about and eventually came to a conclusion. While his NEWT students were certainly talented, the numbers hardly ever gone past the double digit mark. The majority were aspiring Healers or Aurors. Snape knew that there were students who didn't agree with his style of teaching: there were the ones who decided not to enter his NEWT classes and instead hired a tutor or did private study, but those students were less desirable to the Auror Academy or any magical hospital in Britain. The remainders of his NEWT students wanted to open or continue their family's apothecary business and were merely brewers; people who take instructions and recipes created by Potion Masters and Mistresses and create the potions to supply to the public. No one, it seemed, cared about the exact science that went with potion creation.

It's similar to those who were interested in advance magical theory and spell crafting, where history and mathematic equations combine to make the most absurd rules that seemly fit into charms, hexes, curses, and the likes. Unfortunately, every time there is a prodigy, everyone vied for him or her and the Potions Guild could rarely make a viable claim. Perhaps the last person who was just within the reaches of the Potions Guild but didn't quite make it was Lily Evans, but the Department of Mysteries snatched her up like it had been starving for centuries. Severus Snape was the last person to have obtained a Masters, a high ranking one at that. There were other prodigies out there though but they were quickly claimed by other interest groups. Bill Weasley was snatched up by the goblins, Helena Bones was snatched up by the Auror Black Ops, Lupin entered into a ten year servitude contract with Greyback (werewolf bonding rules of sire and childe), and Bellatrix Black was snatched up by the Dark Lord… The list could go on and on.

But the unclaimed twins before him… They weren't just twins, they were magical twins, two brains between them, two beings of the same mind, able to mentally communicate, magically powerful and magically talented. Fabian and Gideon Prewett were primary examples of twin magic, powerhouses in their own rights. It took five of the Dark Lord's inner circle and a well-timed ambush to down the pair. "Granted that you aren't immediately going to become apprentices, I demand at least a month long probationary period to gauge your skills." That was for mere courtesy, he didn't have any intention of letting them go, not if they insisted to work with no adult which would happen if he wasn't their master. At the very least, apprenticeship means no life threatening, dangerous, hazardous cauldron related accidents. (Severus tried to squash the memories of himself doing the exact same thing, brewing alone in an empty classroom with Lily occasionally accompanying him before the great fall out in fifth year.)

Also, it didn't seem to be likely that the Weasleys would suddenly lose their valuable insight in the span of a month. A little part of Snape still couldn't believe what he had heard. The infamous Weasley twins had sprouted theories that First Level Masters would have a hard time to conceptualize.

The twins blinked and cocked their heads to the right at the same angle, off centered by the surprised offer that is so uncharacteristic of the Greasy Vampire of Slytherin. Apprenticeship is an oath by both the master and the apprentice: one to care for and teach and the other to obey and learn that usually lasts anywhere from one year to one decade where the master agrees to teach the apprentice everything… _everything_. They were expected to ultimately become as good as or even better than their master.

The twins debated. The _Yearly Potioneers_ magazine doesn't just wax poetic about the infamously enigmatic Hogwarts professor just for his hair. Everyone wanted to become Snape's apprentice but the man didn't want to teach anyone whom he hasn't taught as a firstie, which was reasonable: anybody who couldn't handle him in the school years would not be able to handle him as an adult. It takes years to grow accustomed to Snape's …quirks. Some might never become used to him.

Say somebody like Harry Potter. The twins had heard through Ronnikins of the disastrous first day of Potions. Ron had complained that the professor had just began isolating Harry with questions that no one had any idea what the answer was save Hermione the Bookworm and had humiliated him in front of the entire class. (There were definitely not going to be any NEWT students from that year, at least none from Gryffindor or Slytherin [Hermione was smart but there was a difference between understanding and rote memorization that cannot be compared].) What Ron and Harry didn't know was that all the questions concerning Draught of Living Death, Bezoars, and Aconite were in the introductory paragraph of their text book.

Writers of _Yearly Potioneers _often gushed over Severus Snape's precise cutting and revolutionary theories that he never ever publishes and Snape would've needed to beat off his fans with a stick if it wasn't for his acerbic personality. There were rumors that Draco Malfoy was going to become Snape's apprentice, godfather favoritisms and stuff, but those were apparently false.

Still… This would put a hitch on their future aspirations for the better or for the worse. Originally, they wanted to get OWLs in charms, transfiguration, and runes, DADA, Magical Creatures, and Astronomy and possibly splitting the workload in half, 3 OWLs each, but that plan seemed to have gone moot. "We like pranks. We will keep pranking even if you try to stop us." They set out bluntly before the professor and waited for his reaction. Yes, the twins adored creating and venturing out into that unknown, obscure field of potions but first and foremost, their priority is setting up a Joke Shop and selling fun and happiness, possibly bringing in some galleons for the family and not making Mum ashamed of them.

Snape closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Two prodigies, magical twins, were sitting before him, unnoticed by the world because of their childlike mentalities. "We will write the contract between us and your parents and make compromises then." He leaned in, "There is no way I'm letting you waste your entire intellect on something so trivial as little jokes and high jinks. I've waited for more than a decade for an apprentice and there is no way I'm letting this be thrown out the window simply because you want emulate Zonko's." The twins gave him a very strange look and rolled over his response in their heads.

Apprenticeships mean that the master will care and provide for his students in every way and since Ginny just entered Hogwarts, that would make it easier for the family in terms of financial stability… (Ronnikins cannot know. Ever.) Snape would also be teaching them Defense Against the Dark Arts and well as Potions. He was currently the number one most demanded Potion Master in the western hemisphere, the magic school in Russia kept stealing him over the summer for seminars and speeches, according to _Yearly Potioneers_. He seemed rather adamant for them to learn under his tutelage. Overall, it didn't seem like a bad idea. McGonagall would skin Snape alive if he dares to take them off the Quidditch team- so no worries on that front. There was that probationary period… Snape would be a hard taskmaster but they were never really scared of him, intimidated as hell but not terrified like Longbottom. Snape would probably be strict about grades but they could deal. They would need to look at the contract carefully.

It would provide a solid ground, knowledge that most would give their first born for; it was a chance into the unknown that could either give them a brighter future than they could ever hope for or blow up in their faces. Gryffindors were known for charging headlong into things.

Fred and George Weasley exchanged glances and shrugged, this might work. Why not?

_To Be Continued_

Author's Note: That's how far the plot bunny went. What I planned in the future-

=== Snape treats the twins as one single entity and there would be lots of tension between them at first (bezoars become a running gag between them) but they will grow to respect each other.

=== The twins still get Harry Potter's Triwizard winnings to Snape's horror and use it to buy safety equipment and a piece of land in Vertical Alley for a future home/store.

=== The bond between Snape and the Weasleys made it so that they were unable to keep secrets from one another. Snape had to reveal his double-agent status and his love for Lily Potter.

=== The master-apprenticeship contract remains a secret till the Battle of Hogwarts and had revived him using a bezoar.


	12. Eburos Ywen

For twelve years, Remus must remain with his sire and his pack. Remus was determined to remain aloof until circumstances forced him otherwise. Fenrir / Remus.

Author's Note: AU. I would like to proudly show off my shallow-ness and declare that both Lupin and Greyback's appearances differ greatly from the movies and are, in general, better looking. _Eburos Ywen _are old names for Yew. My Latin's not up to par, I took special liberties with the poem _O Fortuna. _In the scene with the ritual and the ensuing chase/challenge, the background music I'm imagining is the beginning of _Damsel's Escape_ by Epic Score to the first climax. This is an explanation of why Remus was gone for the first two books.

Warnings: Dark, Slash, semi-OOC, dubious consent, mature content.

**Eburos Ywen**

It's been five lunar cycles and Remus John Lupin still has not managed to successfully integrate himself into the pack. It's been five lunar cycles since Remus John Lupin had graduated from Hogwarts with NEWTs in six subjects. It's been five lunar cycles since he received summons bearing the insignia of the pack name, _Eburos Ywen, _via black screech owl from his sire and Alpha-

_Twelve years. Twelve Lunar Cycles in a Year. Obey our bond, pup and remember the rules. - -Greyback._

Remus had blanched as he shoved his meal aside and dug out a bit of parchment and an inked quill and tried to recall the rules of the pack. 'Alpha, Beta, Omega, rankings, mates, lunar rituals and celebrations, etiquette, submission, dominance, the Chase, the Challenge,' he had hurriedly covered what he wrote with his arm, not minding the wet ink on his arm. Writing on skin is an unspoken plea for privacy. Thank Merlin both Sirius and James have enough sense early in the morning not to pry. 'Secrecy.' Remus stared at the last word for a second before underlying and circling it.

Because of his twelve year servitude, he thought it was moot point to join Dumbledore's vigilante group against the Dark Lord and wasn't so hyped up to become a member. He supposed fact that Auror Moody's fake eye was always trailed on him and everyone at the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters was muttering of "Dark creatures and dangerous werewolves" didn't encourage Remus to view Dumbledore's soldiers in any positive Light. Trust is, after all, a two way bridge, live and let live, to give and give back lifestyle. It most certainly didn't help his case when he announced his departure in the middle of dinner and refused to impart any details of what, where, when, how, how long, and why. He couldn't even tell his friends that the business concerned his furry little problem.

Hell, he can't even tell his family where he will be going. He can just imagine their panic, their oldest son suddenly vanishing for twelve years in a world ravaged by a Dark Lord and his followers. Then again, his relationship with his parents had been strained at best after the revelation that his father had a direct hand in the reason why Greyback had bitten him. As if it wasn't obvious by his namesake. Remus Lupin: that name just screamed wolf.

Poor Selene would be devastated but she would probably have a rough idea of his predicament, she had that penchant for knowing things that under rational law and understanding she shouldn't know. Their parents had often debated the potency of the weak Seer gift that runs in the Lupin bloodline. "Have fun, Remy, I'm sure Loki's son would be nice to you," she had sighed delightedly, staring off into the distance when he had invited her over for tea for old times' sake. Chewing through his chocolate frog, he had eyed her warily across the table, worried for her mental capabilities: ever since that journalist, Xenophilius Lovegood, had begun courting her, she looked more out of the loop than normal. He had stalked Lovegood for a good week before grudgingly admitting that he never saw the suitor slip any potion into Selene's goblets. It was hard to understand why she was so smitten; maybe she had a taste for eccentric older men. He had glanced at his chocolate frog card, Albus W.P.B. Dumbledore, and suppressed the feeling of stark terror. Look on the bright side, Selene could've chosen worse.

"You can't go, Moony!" Peter had clenched onto his robes, openly sobbing, and "I can't do this without you."

"Nonsense," Remus had scoffed, ruffling the shorter boy's hair and openly taking advantage of their height differences, "You wouldn't be part of my pack if you were incapable. I believe in you."

"No, I'm serious, Remy. You're the only one who understands. I'm running ragged as a scout, me mum's dying from a curse from friendly fire and I can't find the counter anywhere, I can't sleep, I'm Merlin's beard and balls and Circe's tits tired." Peter's whine was a continuous low mutter that was interspersed with the occasional sniff and hitch of breath.

That element, the desperation that laced Wormtail's voice, had made him pause at the doorway. Remus had reached over and pulled Peter close and sniffed the back of his neck, inhaling his pack's Omega's magical scent, his fear, his terror, and his doubts. "You should take a break. You're taxing yourself too harshly trying to keep up with Sirius and James." _Poor Wormtail, as the Omega, he bears the brunt of the pack's aggression and punching bag,_ he lamented, _The others probably aren't even aware of their stress upon Wormy._ Often, the abusive treatment to an Omega was instinctual and rarely conscious. "Talk to Dumbledore."

"Moony. I _can't_. Dumbledore's giving me the most assignments. He said that everyone has to pull their weight." _Apparently Peter weighs a lot_, was the dry thought that came unbidden. Hearing Peter's keen made Remus wonder where he stood in his Pack's rankings. Sometimes, the Alpha was Prongs, sometimes it was Sirius. Yet Wormtail always treated Moony as the Alpha, which Moony tolerated on reasons of pure amusement. But sometimes, the position of Alpha was delegate to an outer pack member, specifically Dumbledore- that made Moony rather antsy; the constant switching of powers felt wholly wrong to the beast inside and to give it to an alien member didn't bode well. Dumbledore was too intrusive for his protective instincts. Maybe that was another reason why the Order members stared at him suspiciously; his feral instincts prevented him from being entirely open with the sorcerer.

"You're not a coward. I won't blame you if you refuse the work." Remus casted a Tempus, "I have to go. I'm already late." Peter whimpered; Remus lightly nipped at his throat, trying to console. "Bye Peter."

A little more than a year later, late at night, Remus had received a private Patronus message from the Headmaster, "Sirius betrayed the Potters. Their newborn son, Harry, will be placed with his relatives who will provide for him. Peter is dead. We need you." _Unfortunately_, Remus thought numbly as his brain absorbed the information, _I can't interact with Outsiders, including wizards, not until my twelve year servitude was finished._ Well, the obvious refusal to answer would solidify their suspicions against him as a traitor, or at the very least, someone who can't be trusted. He might as well pull out from the Order and hope to Merlin that they don't send Moody to track him down since he's a security blip on their radar. The phoenix disintegrated into silvery fire, trilling a low note as it shimmered out of view.

Stunned by the message, he had stared blankly at the fire that entire Halloween night. 'Padfoot was a traitor? Prongs and Wormtail were dead? What happened?' And just like that, with a burst of Patronus phoenix flame, the variety that does not burn, his pack was gone. His despair was every night before the full moon and the dew on the grass that reflected light as created an illusion that small faerie lights came out at the base of the Yew. Night and day, the waxing gibbous grew larger till his despair was pounding at the ground, cold, wet feet and fingers that slowly sharpened into claws, pulling out grass by their roots. The sharp stabbing pain in his heart was alien to him, the pain descended into the pit of his stomach and churned with wrath and betrayal.

He clenched at a fistful of his shirt collar, as if trying to tear out his own heart. This realization that comes tumbling down that his life was gone; it hurts too much.

That night, Moony howled his grief at the skies.

He mourned, opting in his free time to stare at the fire, occasionally poking it back to life with a twig. He had grown catatonic and his camaraderie with the rest of his fellow pack-mates suffered, stumbling from one side of the settlement to the other, doing odd jobs to earn his keep. The pain eventually muted under the monthly influences of La Luna. No matter how much he was aware of it or tried to hide away, the glares of the moon made it easier to forget the outside world. The children seemed to like him, though people his age and older generally were happy to ignore him and look past _that werewolf who had gone to that school and interacted with the wizards_. He had his own little hut at the far corner of the settlement and rarely ventured into the center where the festivities and social events and ceremonies happened. It was as if he wasn't in his own body, slightly detached, watching in a third person point of view. His limbs moved on their own, his need to survive in a pack that held an obvious dislike for him.

He can only guess the many, many reasons of why that was. Perhaps it was jealously that he was the only werewolf since his sire to have gone to a Magic School who usually discriminate against weres in general and that he was seen as a potential threat. Perhaps it was because he tried to deny his inner beast for so long by drinking Wolfsbane; it tames Moony but it's an action deemed Taboo by the clan. But his isolation suited him just fine. It was just him and his little hut with decent furniture, a grass mat, and a comfortable bed with sheets, and heating charms repeatedly casted till he could do it wandless to keep the winter wind from entering the small windows.

A lot of things have happened in the Wizarding World while he was gone. You-Know-Who was vanquished by the Boy-Who-Lived, who just happened be Harry Potter, Pronglet. Padfoot was carted off the Azkaban and the world breathed easily for the first time since the Rise of Lord You-Know-Who. The only reason why Remus knew this was due to the word of mouth that travelled through the camp and the occasional perusal of the _Daily Prophet_. With the death of the holder of a Yew wand, _Eburos Ywen_ did not feel obligated to continue its assistance with the Dark Lord and to follow his ideals. Before the fall of the Dark Lord, there would be a new infected "chosen" child joining the pack everyday: that practice came to a screeching halt. The Ministry of Magic brought a subsequent crackdown on the werewolf packs in the United Kingdom resulted in all four wolf packs sending in their leader and delegate for some negotiations of an alliance. They agreed ultimately to merged into one solid group, the four Alphas would compete in a bar-none, mortal combat where there can only be one survivor who will lead the future of the werewolves. There had been word going around that Greyback needed a Beta to stabilize his powers. An Alpha without a Beta was like an arrow without a bow, still deadly, but minimally so. Though Fenrir wasn't so much an arrowhead as a throwing axe…

Honestly, the less Remus thought of his sire, the less grey hairs he had, pun not intended. Greyback had his duties to look after the pack and didn't get into the habit like other sires to constantly seek out one of his many childes, for that, Remus was thankful for. There was no telling what Greyback do if he sees Remus acting weak and subservient; his response could range from a mild rebuke to having Remus' throat torn out in a blood ritual. He could barely recall his first transformation under Greyback's watchful eye. His first instinct was to try in any way to please his Sire but he couldn't remember how they had interacted with one another. The memories were fond, that much was certain. A few good years later, Dumbledore came with the offer to Hogwarts and Fenrir's monthly visits halted abruptly, as if they had never happened.

Perhaps Greyback's non-presence around Remus was a signal to the pack to avoid him. He couldn't be sure. Either way, Remus was sure to be on the outskirts of the pack mentality, careful to not even interact with Greyback's inner circle which consisted mainly of the most powerful bitc… females in the area and a few chosen males who were drunk on the Alpha's power.

Remus looked wistfully at the small children running past a storage shed. It's a pity that with the gift/curse of the Moon, there was an additional payment/curse that females were declared barren and males declared sterile. The pack grew as Greyback returned with the occasionally bitten child, sometimes the new recruits were toddlers. Some would argue against the curse and see it in a positive light: a lifelong mate, a relationship whose foundations were built upon Magic. But Remus Lupin always wanted to have a child, little cherubic faces, cheeks red from the biting wind and gaiety in their glowing eyes, excluding innocence in abundance.

He wasn't sure how he feels about his new community driven life. It was peaceful and escaped many of the prejudices he had dreaded facing once outside looking for a job. More than once, he heard of the men smoking their pipes, sneering of a lady named Umbridge.

During his transformations, he had often wandered into the forest, rolled in the mud to erase his scent, and find a place to wait out the full moon. Even his beast, Moony, was unhappy with the behavior of the other werewolves who refused to acknowledge his presence as a member. In his animalistic form, Remus and Moony battled over their emotions: relief and offended, grief and rage, peace and agitation, content and frustration. In the pack, you're not ever alone, not truly. For someone like Remus, who valued privacy, this set his nerves off quite a bit, as if someone is watching you, always, but you don't know who it is.

On the bright side, the lack of Wolfbane in his system and close quarters with fellow werewolves had gave Remus the skill to flit easily between his human form and wolf form, a skill that, he was surprised to find, was considered normal within the pack. He hypothesized that accepting the wolf into his mentality reduced considerable strain and pain in his transformations.

No matter at how many angles Remus looked at his situation, he couldn't deny that the settlement was a prison and he couldn't stand the feeling of walls closing in on all sides, determined to trap him here. The bond said twelve years of servitude but what wasn't stopping the Alpha from demanding more time? Moony growled at the thought, his wolf took the value of freedom over all others with very few exceptions. That was the only opinion that had bled through the boundaries between beast and human. Remus planned: yes, there was twelve years of servitude, but only one year, twelve lunar cycles, made it mandatory. If one becomes distant from the pack and from the moon, one can leave the pack. He can prepare by the end of the year- some books, some spells, his own blood spilt on the new moon… It would be simple to leave this place

_And go back home._ Remus shuffled uncomfortably in his spot. Home was where the heart is: everybody but Prongslet was dead and he highly doubted that the Ministry would allow him near the famed Boy-Who-Lived. His heart was dead; he needed a will.

But no. He knows a way out of this prison; there were some books he had studied on ritual magic. He can reintegrate back into the outside world and not live in this… strange little dystopia where he was the marked outcast. He will find a path and take it, for all roads lead out of Eburos Ywen.

Still, Spring was coming around the bend. Farmers need to start tilling the land and scattering the seeds. The revel greeting the arrival of the equinox was going to start and unlike previous ceremonies and rituals, this required the presence of all the members to offer up their Luna magic to offer to their mother who sits as a silver orb in the skies. It took five lunar cycles for Remus to reluctantly take part in his first ritual.

The man stood his wand from his inner sleeve and tucked it away at the bottom of his drawer. He took a moment to assess himself, simple button down shirt and pants, and a frayed cloak, not extravagant in any manner and pure black representing courtesy for the dead. Out of habit, he looked for his socks and shoes before he realized that he hasn't been wearing them since he had arrived at the pack grounds. After gazing up at the moon, half hidden by the fast moving clouds, he ambled his way to the ritual grounds, a crater in the forest and stood on the outer boundaries of a crowd that mingled around the ritual circle. The ritual circle, bordered with abnormally large candlesticks, consisted of multiple concentric circles interlocking and looping past one another, where at the center was a tall pole with a fire burning constantly at the top.

Remus ran a hand through his hair and mumbled incoherent curses under his breath, his instincts were screaming at him that something big, something he was unaware of, was going to happen. His instincts were rarely wrong and always vague.

"Quite the obscure ritual," a man at his side was exclaiming to his spouse, "Alpha's advisor had suggested it from a text that had been in his family for generations. I'd say, it's about bloody time Greyback finds himself a companion- he never seemed to be satisfied with anyone under him. So who better to choose than the Moon?"

Mate? _Mate?_ Remus shuddered and pulled at his cloak as the woman laughed lightly. _His mate would be an admirer of his, that would be for sure._

"No one's quite sure what is supposed to happen," the man said worryingly, pulling at the edges of his mustache. "I heard from Sanders that the later ceremony is connected through the revel and will run its course through feral instincts and can transform into a chosen mate or a death." The woman tsked as she stroked and licked her husband's neck, slowly consoling him. Remus glanced around; the people around him were wearing slightly less shabby clothing than he was used to. The shorter ones stood on their tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse at the ritual circle at the center of the basin. Craning his neck, he could see Greyback standing in the first circle around the torch, staring imperiously up at his pack; it took a few minutes for everyone to hush, and then Greyback threw his head back and howled. Remus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he felt Moony stir from his slumber.

A wind blew and the candles nearly sputtered out; the crowd hushed with an expectation. The fire flickered twice and began to glow blue; the moon beams settled on different concentric circles on the visible ground, causing them to glow. Remus looked up at the moon, completely uncovered, and lazily closed his eyes, enjoying the spring wind blowing at his skin.

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et._

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et._

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et._

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et. _

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et._

_Luna aetermae omni-_

As the chants were repeated, louder and louder, the fire blew outward, expanding its thin tendrils in a swirl pattern, mirroring the concentric circle pattern of the ritual floor. People sang, song hit high notes, some hit low notes, but it all mixed and blended together: the wind picked up and the fire magnified and roared, turning pure white and grew beyond the ritual circle and the people as Luna magic emerged from every werewolf in the form of a glowing white light. Children and first timers gasped, it was like they were a castle and the fire had claimed their living ward stone.

The white power reached the outer settlements where the farmlands were and pierced the soil, the ground began glowing green and brown, earthy tones. It began smelling of pine, maple, ash, yew. Branches strengthened, leaf buds broke through the shells, life returned to the forest from a harsh winter. The white power shot up into the air, leaving an after image of a Grecian pillar, aiming towards the moon. Old legends called it White Harvest.

_Statu variabilit. _

_Prosperitas et infelicitas est._

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et. _

_Semper crescit _

_Aut decrescit_

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et. _

_Fortuna lupos servit_

_Eam servimus_

The words came forth from willing mouths, unintentional but confident. The power the werewolves invoked came from a purely instinctual side. It was as instinctual as learning to breath, to walk, to run, to eat, to sleep, to play, to mate. Then the tone of the magic changed into a red hue, the second part of the ritual, the one which required the magic of every being in the settlement, began to emerge.

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et. _

_Amare est vixi_.

_Luna petet ducem._

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et. _

_Luna aeternae omnis videt. Magnificat luna conteget et_

_Amare est vixi…_

Remus grimaced and grabbed at his heart, fearing that it would burst through his ribcage, but he kept chanting. He couldn't see past the white fire that was beginning to develop red streaks which held him in his place, shifting him and prodding him down one step to another to another. Was he even aware that the magic was forcing him into small distance apparation? There was, curiously, no smoke, but a warm bluebell flame-like sensation that made his heart itch and Moony snarl and pace recklessly in its cell. The light from the full moon itched at his skin, pulled at it and pleaded for his transformation. The ritual magic interfered with Magic Luna too much for the change to beast form to be forced but it tore at Remus' skin, as if little ants were crawling underneath his fingernails which began to grow and sharpen. Remus stared down his hand and opened and closed it rhythmically with the beat to his heart.

_Amare est vixi. Luna petet ducem. Amare est vixi. Luna petet ducem. Amare est vixi. Luna petet ducem. Amare est vixi. Luna petet ducem. Amare est vixi. Luna petet ducem. Amare est vixi. Luna petet ducem._

The chant held strong, people were still singing beyond that wall of flame that churned and roared till it was painful to hear. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, the itch in his skin was bold, he coaxed his body through a partial transformation, seeing the world through his six senses, sniffing the white magic that tasted of spices, the fire and ash, the earth under his feet, sturdy and dry that grew warmer, and warmer, and warmer…

And then the fire died, blown away like small grains of sand prey to the wind. Standing in the ritual circle, Remus Lupin looked around, hunching his back and tensing his muscles. His heart nearly grinded to halt and his eyes widened in shock. Across the circle was his sire, Fenrir Greyback, observing him, his expression indecipherable, with eyes white as the moon and equally bright. _Wait. What's going on? _Flames flickered around him, just as his form flickered between man and beast, feral, powerful, wholesome, more, too much… underneath Fenrir's skin was a wolf hiding underneath. Moony could sense the power of the Alpha and whined and bared his teeth at the new threat. He could see Fenrir's white fangs flashing at him once, then...

The fire licked across his skin but didn't burn, it merely felt of power, this sixth sense of power lingering and touching nerves, making them stand up on end… waiting… anticipating with trepidation… But he didn't know what was going on. All thought had long departed and he was merely a creature of the present- fire, magic, Sire. There was fire, magic, and his sire and that moon above that prevented him from thinking of the hows and whys but to merely register the sensations. A part of him was grasping at his last threads of coherency as Moony was beginning to test the bars of his cage.

A quick shift of a displacement of a presence; the vacuum pulled at him; Remus staggered back with one hand covering his neck, the ghosting memory of bared fangs and four puncture wounds dragging down the skin, and the other hand unconsciously curling. The scars on his neck were old, back when he was young and unable to comprehend what had happened. He heard his sire's howl past the firestorm but he was unable to gauge the distance between them which made him more wary; the sounds made his hair stand- he felt cold. Moony seemed to have figured out what was happening but was refusing to tell his human. Moony was preparing for-

_An inevitable, refuse to bow, refuse to submit, will defend freedom, will not, will not, will not, Will Not, WILL NOT. _Moony snarled and bared his teeth, hackles rising in a defensive position. The power of the moon swirled and sunk into his skin. Instinctively, Remus threw his head back and howled, feeling his features morph into Moony, he felt claws at his fingertips, his teeth sharpening and his bones shifting to accommodate his new form. The fire broke apart temporarily above his head and for a single moment, he could feel the moon hit him with cold abandon, accusing him of disloyalty, for fraternizing with the wand-holder, to integrating himself into their culture and _denying his own_. It was nigh impossible to fight back but he tried, telling himself that he was no more a beast than man, he was himself, he did not have to bow down to the moon, powers or not. He was not reared that way, nor was Moony. La Luna is furious. Crouched against the onslaught, Remus mused that the sentience from La Luna could be compared with the sentience of Hogwarts, except that the later pales in comparison.

Remus blinked. His sire stood before him in beast form, four legs on the ground. _The Challenge. The Chase._ He heard himself roar. Remus felt the common feeling of Moony forcefully taking over; he attempted to fight back but the wolf was strengthened by the enchanted fire and the light of the moon…

_Challenge. _

_Chase. _

_Refusal to submit._

_Never._

_Never._

_Never._

_Blood_

_Rip_

_Tear_

_Fight_

_Blood_

_Never_

_Never_

_Never_

Remus wakes up in a simple room on a comfortable bed coping with a splitting headache. _Just let my entire conscience drip steadily off the bed and join my brains. _He stared up at the tan ceiling and swept his gaze to his right and observed the military simplicity of the room. Wincing as he gently pushed against his temple with his right hand, he tried to recall past events, _Fenrir and he lunged at the same time and met in mid-air: claws, bites, and snarls, _and was rewarded with a greater splitting pain across his skull. He drew a sharp intake of breath and groaned.

"You're awake."

Remus jumped at the familiar voice, low and hoarse, mentally smacking himself for not realizing that he wasn't the only person under the covers. He turned toward his left, stared into two orbs of amber, and benignly greeted, "Sire." In response, the other man responded with the typical greeting an Alpha would bestow upon a lesser were, by sniffing the junction between the neck and collar bone; the gesture was make atypical by Fenrir's hands, which rested on Remus's stomach and _way too low_ for his conservative tastes. It was always Padfoot or Prongs who were the sexual deviants of the group, not Wormtail, not him. "Sire, what are you doing?"

The sense of superiority oozed off of his Alpha in waves of compulsion magic that mentally pushed him to obey, serve, and listen to the were. Fenrir cocked his head in askance in a way that reminded Remus of a bemused predator, "Do you not recall what the ritual was for?"

_Mate. Greyback needed a Beta…_

Remus blanched horribly and scrambled and… dear Merlin, he wasn't wearing anything and… neither of them was wearing anything. The implications of the situation froze him as he tried to concentrate on his breathing to stay calm and. Not. Panic. _We didn't do anything; I would know if we did anything, I would be able to feel it. _He did a cursory check over his body; dark scratched littered his body though the worst were covered up by bandages. He sneaked a glance up; Greyback returned his stare expressionless, lounging comfortably among the pillows, propped up with an elbow. Eyes flitting downwards, Remus stared at Fenrir's chest, taking note of the damage on the skin: deep flesh wounds, though healing.

"No," he muttered (even his own voice cannot convince), "Not to me."

Fenrir barked a laugh, one that sounded hauntingly like Padfoot's. "It can happen to you," the older man stared at him lazily through half-lidded eyes, "In fact, it already has." Fenrir leaned over, his larger form shadowing Remus's own, trapping the smaller man in a prison bar of his arms, and whispered into his ear, "For the good of the pack- our future."

"There is no future." Remus seethed and turned his head to the side, tearing himself away from his Sire's grip on his chin, retreating but trying to hold his own modesty and failing miserably. If he took he sheets, Fenrir will be bare, if he didn't, then he will, though it didn't seem like his Alpha cared much of nudity. He glared, "there is only…" A sharp pain flashed above his eye, horizontally through his skull, as if he was about to slip apart. Hearing Moony whimper in fear in the corner depths of his mind, he hissed as he clutched his head.

_Claws, rip, bite, a set of teeth holding his throat in warning… _

_Submission._

_Failure._

He closed his eyes as more memories from last night revealed themselves, "Moony already lost to you," he felt cold. Moony recognized defeat. He couldn't get total recall of what had happened but he feared what he didn't know.

_Defeat. Too weak._ _Cannot fight anymore. _If his werewolf couldn't fight against his Alpha, then how can he?

Fenrir moved. Remus felt himself thrown back onto the bed, "Wait. No! What are you…" and pinned down by the larger man. Fenrir's eyes were feral amber; his visage was that of aristocratic blood, his hair, naturally grey, barely reached his muscled shoulders in a tangled mess. "Stop! Stop! What are you doing?" Remus yelled frantically. He never thought that this was going to happen. _Mate. He said "mate." What did you think was going to happen?_

Then, Fenrir pulled back and leaned back onto the pillows. Remus had one second to register that he still maintained a firm grip on his wrists before he was jerked forwards and sprawled unceremoniously onto Fenrir's lap. His sire placed a hand on the back of his neck, pulling his face even closer until their mouths were only an inch apart and their breaths were palpable on the skin, "What do you think I'm doing? I'm claiming you." Then, Fenrir rolled his hips, causing Remus to gasp at the friction that suddenly erupted, "You always deluded yourself into thinking that you can escape me, pup. You have nothing left there, nothing to return to. You have nothing but me." The other growled, "You're delusions; that's what they are, merely delusions. Don't disobey the moon, don't call this feeling alien."

Remus growled back but Greyback's grip tightened, "Do not anger me. Do not fight me. You were under my rule the moment your father handed you over to save himself. I recognized you for what you are, _Lupin_."

Greyback's hands held his hips down, Remus could not string together two words to retort, could only feel and be fully aware and shamed of how hard he was and how his Alpha's hand was covering his- Greyback moved again. "Ahh…" was the noise that came out of Remus as he searched for Moony in his mind. Moony stayed silent, eyes half open in helplessness. For a moment, both human and beast found common ground, the loss of freedom. In his mind, Remus stared at the werewolf, stared at the amber eyes that held the smallest flickers of life. _No. This can't be happening, I was supposed to leave. I could've left if it wasn't for… I could've escaped and returned home… No… no… no… _He felt his own inner voice grow weaker asGreyback stroked him and nibbled his ear, just harshly enough to express dominance. Remus buried his face in the other's neck and whimpered.

"There's nowhere to run." Was the purr that tickled his neck, "Twelve years. Twelve Lunar Cycles in a Year. Obey our bond, pup and remember the rules." Fenrir whispered before taking Remus's lips in a bruising kiss and flipped them over so he wouldn't be able to escape. There was no more talk after that.


	13. Regenerating Hitler

Harry Potter discovers that he is much less than what he had ever thought that he was. Because Harry Potter had died on that fateful Halloween night and the only thing remaining was the soul shard of T. M. Riddle.

Author's Note: For this idea, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes to me. In truth, I just wanted to make a story with a title called "Regenerating Hitler." It's from a story I had once heard where an evil scientist cloned the body of Hitler, placed him in the exact same growing environment as he had in history, containing everything exact from his first childhood to his rejection from the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna. But even with his fanaticism towards Nationalism, somewhere, somehow, inconceivably, Hitler never led the Third Reich. In the end, Hitler brought the end of the scientist and questioned the motives of human destiny and the identity of one's self as an individual or as the expectations of a copy. In a way, there are things in this world that science can never solve.

The "Train to Nowhere" idea was borrowed from Pain au Chocolat. I don't own some quotes from the movies or the books. I don't own Harry Potter_._

Warnings: AU, slight OOC, self reflection, 2nd POV, sociopathy, mild disdain towards Ron, mild manipulative Dumbledore, hardly edited, not quite in order, no real plot, slight hint of sexuality.

**Regenerating Hitler**

The parallels are chilling between you two: the Boy-Who-Lived and the You-Know-Who, both terrible, terrible monikers; you can only imagine what the two of you would be renamed if you were victorious: the Man-Who-Survived and the Fallen-One, or if you were defeated: the Chosen-One-Who-Perished and He-Who-Will-Never-Be-Named. Staying in a tent in the middle of the woods with your best friend who shattered into a million pieces after the by-your-leave from your other "best friend" (you keep telling yourself that it's not Ron's fault, but the Horcrux's influence, but the bitterness is still there, especially when you hear her muffled sobs every night) does not wonders on one's mental health. Staying in a tent leads one's brain to be bored without the constant stimuli of schoolwork and idle to muse in ways that you haven't since your Pre-Hogwarts days in the cupboard under the stairs, hours on end: it leads you to think towards new paths, dangerous ones.

Because you have a suspicion that started back in fifth year when your scar-link with Voldemort grew stronger and stronger since his resurrection in that disastrous end of the Tournament. Blood magic doesn't work in that way. Your suspicion developed into a conspiracy theory when Dumbledore finally (after showing you the entire Voldemort undisclosed biopic) unleashed his secret to immortality: Horcruxes. It's funny how the very word managed to make your skin crawl as your magic spat and fizzed in disgust, even before you knew the definition. It didn't take long, after hearing Slughorn's tearful confession, to make a connection from one side of the mental bridge to another, as the clues were glaringly obvious-

The resemblance between you and T. M. Riddle was uncanny. Surely any witness would infer a blood relation between you and young Tom: cousins, siblings- but there wasn't any. Tom mentioned it in second year. You became aware in sixth year. The remaining conclusion is a magic relation or as Dumbledore speculated upon, a Right of Conquest on that fateful Halloween night where you defeated him and took parts of his magic and talents (Parseltoungue). ("So, your mother tried to save you. Yes, that's a powerful counter-charm. I can see now. ...There is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. There are a strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the Great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike. ...But after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That's all I wanted to know.")

You shared the same wand core: a single tail feather from Fawkes. Years of living in Magical Britain, if it has taught you nothing else, has at least shown you and repeatedly knocked into your head, the concept that coincidences do not exist- there is a reason behind everything. You prayed with all your might that the Right of Conquest and Voldemort's lingering magic on you had influenced the type of wand that chose you and that there wasn't something more sinister behind the explanation of dual wand cores (which according to wand lore, is nigh impossible).

But that hope ended when you met the diary of Riddle of Hogwarts, who was a mirror image of you in not just in physicality but also mentality. He openly displayed attributes such as distrust, a sense of superiority, the condescending attitude towards the ignoramus: attributes that you have hidden in a small, tiny, little corner of your heart. In that small tiny corner, you didn't trust any of your professors (have they given any reason for you to think otherwise?), you thought yourself better than your muggle relatives and your enlarged cousin, your apathy towards Hufflepuffs had immediately turned ugly after the Dueling Club incident. Frankly, hearing Riddle talk scared you witless and you were stunned for a few minutes but the other didn't noticed and continued his diatribe of something that you can care less about (Diary... memory... Ginny), before you forced yourself to move. His words still holds power. You suspect that you unconsciously rebelled against your Slytherin self because of Riddle: you became Dumbledore's man through and through, you never retaliated against your relatives in a way that they deserved, you forgave the Hufflepuffs in second year, you were merciful towards Pettigrew in third year, you forgave Ron in fourth year (you wondered, as you watched Ron's retreating back, as Hermione's heart shattered, if that was your best idea, but then reminded yourself that forgiving is what friends do, no matter how distasteful it feels, and forced down the need to send a curse at the Weasley's heels) as well as the Hufflepuffs and the entire school, you forgave the Wizarding World in fifth year. (Forgiving is a strange action: to you, it means that you never bring up the incident again.)

In fifth year, you saw visions. You crucioed your Death Eaters in unspeakable fury when they failed their missions. You desired the prophecy so much that it pained your weak golem body, held together by the flesh of your weak servant, the sole bone of your father, and the blood of your enemy. You were Nagini, striking Mr. Weasley in the dark corridor until you ran out of venom. You were Voldemort's eyes. You can't deny it. You were Voldemort. You allayed your concerns to Sirius who shared them to Dumbledore... who brushed you off. Herein lays the problem: Dumbledore (along with everyone else in the world) thought that you were Harry Potter- but you begged to differ.

How could they not see? In retrospect, it's so obvious.

Then there was Ginny. The lovely, spirited Ginny who had snogged Colin, Neville, Michael, and Dean in that order before turning fifteen. You never told anyone this, but when you dated her, when she wanted to to take things further physically and emotionally, at her climax, she called you, "Tom." You had obliviated her on reflex and sent her back to the dorm as you puttered around in the Room of Requirement, staring at the grand, circular bed with red, disturbed, silk sheets, and the duly lit fireplace, and the romantic atmosphere and slowly realized the repercussions of your actions. The love wasn't quite the same after that and you terminated the relationship during Dumbledore's funeral under a bullshit excuse of trying to keep her safe.

Maybe you did belong in Slytherin. In your initial Hogwarts career, you had a budding Slytherin personality. You had guilt tripped Ron into finding Hermione after Quirrel cried, "Troll." You terrorized the Dursley's your first summer back from Hogwarts, convincing them that you were allowed to do magic in their presence. You had stolen Snape's Boomslang skin and shed fake tears for McGonagall in order to visit Hermione petrified in the Hospital Wing in second year. Slytherin-Harry existed. But then Gryffindor nurtured the Slytherin all out of you and brought out your other side: brash, courageous, daring, emotional Harry J. Potter.

There's Hermione. Hermione was so much like Bella. Both had the wit and the cunning and the sadistic tendencies: let it be known that it isn't quite normal for people to put curses on contract parchment, that it isn't quite normal to trick people into the Forbidden Forest where the vengeful and angry centaurs dwelled. Oh Hermione, how can you hide such a little spitfire jewel in you? And then there was Ron. Ron...? You didn't really know how you got to be Ron's friend. It just happened. He initiated every single part of the conversation- it was quite strange. Well, forget about Ron, he isn't here right now, unlike Hermione, undyingly loyal, brutal if need be, fierce Hermione. …Or was that Bella? Brutal Bella, fierce Bella, without much action on your part, Bella turned into everything.

In between was a perfect balance between the polar opposites: complete apathy. Of all the unfairness of the world, of all the hope: you were able to properly express your reactions- but they were often found lacking in life. (Typically, it's been the other two of the Golden Trio that cared.)

The turning point was at the Department of Mysteries where Voldemort attempted to take possession over your body. Soon after, your hidden Slytherin began to re-manifest itself. You shamelessly took advantage of the textbook belonging to the Half-Blood Prince. You took secret pleasure in watching Ron make a fool out of himself and did not bat an eyelash when you saw Hermione hurting every time he was with Lavender, still sore from her accusations of you cheating in Potions. Were you beginning to gain more emotions? Was it from the possession? Was it from your own growth in maturity? Was this the real you? Let's not forget when you conned Slughorn in giving his biggest secret.

Ah yes. And there was that- a Horcrux. Listen to that word. Roll it in your tongue. It is possibly the most despicable idea ever created on this Earth. But it's an idea; it's something in the head, it invades your mind as a suggestion, not in a way that it did with Tom Riddle who resolved to make seven of them, but in a way that you think that you are nothing but a Horcrux. Maybe you aren't Harry Potter; you don't feel like a Harry Potter or a Potter, to be honest, no matter what Snape says ("You have the Potter arrogance... just like your father.") There must be a reason why the family vaults refused to open for you: since they relied on pure family magics passed down from one generation to another to be opened and not blood. And how can you have the Potter magic if Potter is dead? If the entire family lineage is dead? You were never skilled at Transfigurations like your father, or Charms or Potions like your mother: you had skills in Defense Against the Dark Arts (and most likely the Dark Arts themselves, if you ever decided to try). So what if Harry Potter had died and you are Riddle, a Horcrux of Riddle, one-half to the seventh power of a soul? That's a really small piece of a soul to be independent and still stay relatively sane.

But suppose you aren't that sane. Let's remember that behind all the hatred and insults and sneers, Aunt Petunia was correct in a way: when you were young, you really were a freak of nature. You don't remember much, but you can recall the confusion when people deigned to show you affection, when you deduced that should you be a _normal _human being, you were suppose to _care back_. But you don't: you embodied complete apathy and the slightest bit of resentment. You had stared back at Aunt Petunia, daring her to take it one step further, daring her to whack you again with that frying pan. Go on: let see what you can't do with a bit of anger. ("I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want to do without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean...") There were outbursts, usually towards the end of the year, but they were few and far between. Did Tom possess anti-social behaviors? The short answer is "yes," but he was good at hiding it. In conclusion, your soul isn't complete. Time heals: it fills the cracks and smooths the sharp edges from the break that manage to snag onto magic, but it can't make you whole again.

Prior to everything, you never realized that you weren't complete because there was no feeling to compare it to- but you were aware of how intrinsically wrong you were and your inability to do anything but merely function. (Drifting... less than a spirit.)

You recall the medical journals of those people kissed by dementors that you had looked at in curiosity after third year: it's nothing short of depressingly gruesome. Brain dead people, soulless husks, the ones with the possibility of turning into an inferius, they were pushed off the cliff of Azkaban in rows after every Kiss session. The worst is the post-traumatic stress disorder from the Aurors who do these deeds: they choked out stories of the soulless, still alive in the water, miraculously dodging the rocks, floating face down... or face up, in the black sea.

Soul magic is a near religious belief in Europe. It's a belief system that can be made into a reality. It's frightening to even conceive the Taboo behind the killing curse. Why oh why, Hermione, did you raise your hand to answer Professor Moody's question? ("Ignorant Mudblood, how dare she spits the Taboo into our face?") Why oh why did you say the _incantation_? There's something frightening about soul magic. _Avada Kedavra _punches the soul out of the body and sends it to the Train to Nowhere without judgment, petition, or purgatory. Dementors suck out the soul from the body and digests it. Your very existence is the Otherworld Fae's sustenance. Doesn't it make you feel... small? Insignificant?

And if your hypothesis is correct, that you are a piece of Riddle, then that makes you a foreign soul shard in a living body where the original host soul had long disappeared, where you contain the blood of a lineage not of yours and you contain your original magic by a Right of Conquest over yourself, where Lily's sacrificial magic protects you against yourself, where a prophecy has been made where you are pitted against yourself. How in the seven levels of hell have you not already combusted? All the branches of magic all mixed and condensed into one little wizard such as you ... you can never call yourself a little wizard, you fancied yourself larger than life, flying away from the hands of Death.

Right. So what does that make you?

You can remember your dual childhoods: the orphanage and the Dursleys, the bed at the corner of Room 271 and the cupboard under the stairs, Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson and the Pig-in-a-Wig. The isolation: a gift and a curse depending on your mood of the moment. Why aren't you extolling the destruction of the Muggle world? Why did you end up in Gryffindor of all places? Was it from the meeting with Malfoy at Malkin's? Was it the influence of your birth parents' blood? _No_. (You close your eyes and clench your fist: unclench, clench, unclench, clench... and let go, breathed out.) _Calm_. You are still Tom Riddle in personality, through and through, the apathy, the disdain (hidden so deep that you tricked yourself into believing that it isn't there).

Never the less, there were differences. You weren't as good a magic anymore because your first wand, yew with phoenix feather, did not belong to you. There was Gryffindor impulsiveness which can be explained by the house's influence; it makes you wonder what would happen if the first Tom Riddle had ended up in Gryffindor. Gryffindor and time can make the difference between a murderer and a child brimming with resentment.

"My fellow wizards and witches, I see the dawn of a new era and it casts long shadows of forms which refuse to bow under the pressures of those who are not fit to walk amongst us! We will not allow the Ministry wallow in its ignorance, we will counteract everything injustice against us! The muggles will never be a part of our lives, we will not live in constant fear. We will heed to the calls of a new revolution!"

You are Tom Riddle; you are Harry Potter; you are something else altogether.

_On the Train to Nowhere_

"Back again, Harry?" You turned around towards the source of the greeting, you sagged in relief at the familiar face amongst so many strangers, small shades of people walking in such a pristine, otherworldly white and faded King's Cross. They said that one's beginning is one's end. Most people would see the Train stop at their houses, the normal symbolic "conscious introduction to magic." But for him, it's always been King's Cross, Platform Nine and Three Quarters. The barrier was a small curtain of magic, like an invisible curtain of water, washing you as you travel between worlds. On one side was the promise of Hogwarts, on the other side was the promise of Number 4, Privet Drive.

"Headmaster," Casting a curious eye about, you greeted the sorcerer-sans-black-hand and felt the need to report to the general, "Headmaster. Voldemort is still out there but we got nearly all the Horcruxes. The last one is a mere body. If there's anyway I can tell Neville to-" Dumbledore interrupted you by raising a hand and you stared at the hand with curiosity. In your mind, the hand was superimposed by the illusion of rotting flesh.

"I feared," Eyes twinkling, the older wizard gently started, stroking his beard, "that Tom was still out there, but if you are here, then his demise is ever closer." He turned his back towards you and surveyed the strange crowd which flitted in and out existence, "Tell me my boy, do you know where you are? Do you know why you are here?"

It was a simple question which you easily answered, "I'm going onto the Train to Nowhere after I find Voldemort. I had asked around: word is out that there's a deformed baby hiding in the shadows."

The simple answer garnered a frown from your once mentor, "Don't you think that you still have unfinished business back with the living?" Dumbledore pressed, linking his hands behind his back reminiscent of the old retired persons sitting in a park with back pain.

You adamantly shook your head, "Neville can take care of it. He's the other one blessed by the prophecy, right? It'll be a pretty simple business. He also has the Sword of Gryffindor: I'll place my trust in him," you disagreed and began looking under the benches of King's Cross, hearing a distant wailing of a baby somewhere in your peripheral. The shades did not acknowledge your presence and walked through you, content in their little spiritual bubble of privacy. The only other person in this place capable of moving Tom was Dumbledore and Dumbledore so far had shown the amount of interest in the abandoned baby as Ron would show to Ancient Runes. The baby's scream ringed and echoed in your ears. You cast out your senses and searched for a part of a soul, a sliver of dark magic, yourself.

The older wizard shook his head in consternation, "But you have people behind you waiting for a miracle. You're not done." He stressed, beckoning with palms upward, "the seventh Horcrux was destroyed as soon as Voldemort sent the killing curse towards you: the magic was absorbed into your scar. This should only be a temporary stay." Tilting your head back, you uncharacteristically raised an eyebrow in his direction at Dumbledore as the implications of what came out of his mouth started to hit him.

"It is why I can't go back, Headmaster." Running a hand through your hair in exasperation, you patiently replied as you scanned down the train tracks and noted that the train tracks were a small crack in reality, revealing a black abyss. (Stare into the abyss and the abyss will stare back.) You wisely stepped away, "I'm dead. The dead do not return. Death itself is another adventure_. _Isn't that what you just said?"

"Perhaps you misunderstood me. You aren't dead Harry. And if you are, then it's temporary death. The seventh Horcrux, was finally expelled from your scar by Voldemort." You blinked and realized that for the past few minutes, the Headmaster and you have been operating under a different set of beliefs. How could you have forgotten? You chuckled and covered your smile with your hand as you walk past two pillars and some train cars.

"Perhaps _you _misunderstood _me. _Headmaster, I am dead," You parroted slowly, giving the other wizard a sardonic tilt of the corners of the mouth, "I don't think there ever was a Harry." There hasn't been a Harry Potter in seventeen years. And slowly, you see the slow horror in his eyes as the twinkle begins to dim. You suspect that this has been one of his theories for a really long time, one that for years he had cast a blind eye to, hoping to Merlin that it wouldn't be true. To tell the truth, you feel slightly vindicated by the stony expression on his face, still nowhere near to make up for seventeen years of... how did Snape put it... raising a pig for slaughter. "I can't go back."

"...Tom?"

You shrugged. "Maybe." It's not like you have all the answers: you will, one day, just not now. You finally spot Voldemort wrapped in a blanket lying under a bench at the far end of the station where the scentless white smoke accumulates. You hear the Train whistle three times. You hear Dumbledore behind you placing together all the clues together and coming to a conclusion. You feel Dumbledore's shock like a weight on your shoulders but you effortlessly shake it off. You gently pick up the ugly baby and the baby stops crying and opens his red eyes and stares at you: you grin right back. ("Hello there, Baby Tom, I'm here to take you away.") Cheered, you turn back to Dumbledore and happily wondered aloud and accused, "You'd think that with my upbringing, I would be another one of his reflections. You thought that I would hate muggles and mudbloods. You thought that I would destroy Britain at any of the instances that it has betrayed me. But I didn't, for that, you are happy. But..."

But?

But, everything. That ineffable _everything._

You observe the sorcerer aging before your eyes as his drive and goals and plans were sucked out of him. In your peripheral, people are starting to quicken their paces boarding the Train from which you feel a familiar pull and Voldemort's little wrinkly baby hands start to stretch out, grasping the air. Maybe you should tell him that he has a seat on on the second car with his name on it, but you don't.

You feel a weight settle in your pockets and know that suddenly, seemly by the unknown forces of magic, you possess the three Deathly Hallows. Imagine that. After a full year on the run, skipping seventh year of Hogwarts, running blindly from one edge of England to another, you obtained the Deathly Hallows. They had accepted you and deemed you worthy as the new Master of Death. It was irony at it's finest: something that you had always dreamed about falls into your lap the moment you stop searching. The Train whistles again.

Without a word, you straighten back up and turn away from the once Headmaster of Hogwarts, whistling a distant tune. You bask in your duty: to collect the dead, to guide them onto the train, to steer the train. You straightened your shoulders.

Dumbledore is fast behind you.


	14. A New Methodology

No Potion Master worth his salt would ever die from a snake bite. Precariously balancing on the side of life, Severus Snape makes a new life for himself in a Post-Voldemort world.

Author's Note: No romance. I don't own Harry Potter_. __Oops, I just realized how similar this story was to one of my other oneshots._

Warnings: AU, Slight spoilers, Ocs, Definitely Epilogue Non-Compliant, Bad Grammar.

**A New Methodology**

_1_

Sir Faustus Prince was a man of the century, greatly resembling former Headmaster Karkoff if Karkoff had had lived to age. He had offered his guest to sit in one of the luxurious recliners and ordered a house elf to bring some cider for both of them. As they waited, the silence grew, as neither men was inclined to break the uneasy atmosphere. On one hand, Severus Snape found it hard to keep eye contact with his maternal grandfather due to the growing disgust in his heart: before him sat a man who had disowned his daughter for marrying a muggle, a man who had left her to die in the hands of the muggle. If there was any other choice, he would've rejected the invitation to visit the ancestral abode of Prince, a small respectable house sitting by a lonely road halfway between Gloucester and the Forest of Dean. But Faustus Prince had reinstated Eileen Snape back into the family which by association makes Severus a member of the Prince family for the sole motivation of using the family magics to compel the lost grandson to make a social call.

As the family magics lessened their hold on his fiercely occluded mind, Severus Snape wondered with a sinking feeling if he had escaped two masters, the Dark Lord and the Light Lord, only to be trapped in the clutches of his family Lord. He was too tired for more servitude which had dominated the greater part of his life. For the first time in many years, with nothing to hold him back, he had tasted freedom, and it had tasted wonderfully sweet. Severus's mouth twisted in a grim smile as he turned his attention from the fireplace and onto his grandfather. Faustus Prince had his mother's dull eyes, narrow and slanted with years of derision and distrust. His bone structure was Snape's save for the nose. He held himself in that arrogant bearing (again, forcing him to remember Karkoff. Merlin, they better not be any relation,) with pureblood Slytherin airs. It lends itself a hopeless feeling inside his heart – if he has to serve this man... Maybe he should have allowed Nagini's venom to run it's course.

"The moment that the family had heard news of the Dark Lord rising, they ran for to the continent. It was a coward move fit for cowardly people," Prince smacked his lips against the taste of cider and nodded at the house elf who deeply bowed and silently disapparated, "We are a family of England. Our family has found its roots on this soil and it will perish with this soil: we sworn a debt to the land and nothing will be enough to repay the ley lines. That's what I told them and yet they do not listen. I will not have us like mongrels with our tails between our legs running from, if the rumors were true, a halfblood. Us two, you and I, we are the only Princes by blood on England: I have heard news across the channel of another family being established there- leaving us behind. If we don't stay here, our family will be known in history as blood traitors lower than the Weasleys, lower than muggles. But I have a solution, for we are a proud family no matter," he cast a critical eye to the other as he gently placed his glass down, "no matter how far we have fallen."

The fire crackled merrily at their right and gave an overwhelming amount of warmth to only one side of his body, "In that case, Sir Prince, let us be reminded that I am also a halfblood," Severus replied stiffly, feeling vaguely offended but too tired to put his usual amount of vitriol into his sentences, "You have no need of me and I'll take my leave."

"It's not that simple. Sit back down, boy." The elder utilized words laced with power: the family magic roared with a vengeance and forced his knees to bend. After recovering from shock, Snape gave the blackest glare to his grandfather by blood who was not fazed but smirking victoriously. "Rest assured that I will not push you, given your past history, it will take very little for you to crack." His smile grew wider, revealing yellowed teeth and shriveled gums, "I am not that ruthless."

Severus crossed his legs and leaned back against the high chair with his fingers knitted together, waiting for the explanation to come. The man's reaction gave him some breath to think: he did not punish him like the Dark Lord, nor did he take away his freedom like Dumbledore. There was hope.

Sir Faustus Prince leaned forwards, resting his withered cheek on one knuckle, and cleared his throat as he pulled at his high collar, "Our family is falling. The name will vanish with my death and will be dragged through the dirt with our shame. My daughter, your mother, held none of the ancestral gifts, satisfying herself as the club head of Gobstones, of all shames. She had nothing: she represented our pure and ever weaker blood. Average in her studies, showing no modicum of talent in any area of discipline except for discipline itself. Then, without warning, she ran off to marry a muggle." A wrinkled hand grasped the cane and pointed it towards the fire- the antechamber glowed blue and grew warmer. "We were devastated, of course, but tradition states that we must dissociate her from us- she was aware of the consequences. Time passes. You were naught but a small thought at the back of the mind, a burnt mark on our tapestry." He took another sip of cider and smacked his lips again. "Then I hear news of her progeny, a gifted child of Slytherin, a Master of Potions, the Dark Arts, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts, a spell creator. Perhaps what they say about a routine wash of new blood is correct? Perhaps good things do come when your daughter thoughtlessly fell in love with the first muggle to deign to look at her and drugged him with Amortentia." He twirled his cane absentmindedly against the floorboards, "The Potters also held that belief and look at where it has landed them- a child who can produce the Patronus in his third year, simply amazing." Severus stiffened further.

"You called me here for a reason, old man. Speak now or I will leave." He ground his teeth to keep from biting out offensive comments about where the Potters can go.

"Imagine my surprise. On one hand, I heard news of your death and on the other, the magics told me that you were very much alive. I wished to see proof before my very eyes." Sir Prince's gaze snapped up to meet his and focused, "Severus Snape, the man who outwitted two powerful lords of our times. I must say, I am very, very impressed." He snapped his fingers and the same house elf brought forward a small stack of documents, "Now why would you listen to the ramblings of an old man? Because this old man has a request and an offer. Simply put, I am dying. I don't suppose that I have even a month inside of me, but no matter, I have most of my affairs sorted out. The majority of the family wealth had been taken aboard but they left me a meager pittance." Faustus Prince sighed, "My own family."

Severus spread the parchments and skimmed over each one: funeral rites, burial grounds, private property, liquidated assets, letters to other noted houses, the family tree, a will... When his eyes landed on the last sheet, he blanched, "You wish for me to carry on the family name? As Nerva Prince?"

"A name is a name, my boy." The other testily replied before coughing into his hand, "Surely it must be better than Snape, a name that is still very, very fresh in the minds of the young students at Hogwarts. But Prince... a name nearly forgotten? It's an offer of a fresh start. See here, on the fifteenth line. To make the deal more palpable for your tastes, I'll even give you this house and the remaining wealth from my vaults, enough for a reasonable start up fund of whatever ventures you wish to start. The only price you pay is the bearing of the name."

Severus hesitated, "No loose ends?" That name represented everything that he wished he had and hated that other people claimed. As much as he publicly ignored and even reveled in his worse personality traits, he knew that he had inherited his hypocrisy from his mother. He hated as much as he desired, he derided as much as he approved. "What reasons do you have behind this?" He reluctantly asked as he set down the papers and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

In the blue light of the fire, Sir Faustus Prince's eyes were the color of a dimming sunset. Eileen Prince's eyes were the color of a breaking dawn. Severus's eyes were the color of pitch blackness, a result of genetic inheritance from his late father as well as an over exposure to potion fumes. "A name is only a name. But when that name is preeminent, that name lasts forever."

A month later, the Daily Prophet listed one Sir Faustus Prince on the obituaries.

_2_

The Potter brat and the Know-It-All ran out of his sight, not even bothering to muffle their footsteps from any ears: between them, there was perhaps the survival instinct of a lucky yet suicidal lemming. The memory extraction technique had been messy on his part for he could feel images leaking out of the side of his brain in the form of white strings. Spots were already dancing tantalizingly at the corners of his vision but he was confident that his immunity, something that he had fostered and encouraged the moment he realized that the Dark Lord did not mind his cobra striking and eating some of the unworthy Death Eaters, would sustain him longer than the average wizard. He had injected little increments into his bloodstream in hopes to build antibodies against the venom. At this moment, those antibodies are the only things keeping him alive.

He weakly reached for his wand lying innocently on the stone floor and held it in shaky fingers, "A-_accio_." Moments later, a small stone flew out of one of his many pockets and landed in his hand. His body sagged in relief as he bent down to swallow it. A beozar covered an unprecedented range of poisons including cytotoxins, haemotoxins, and neurotoxins- thank Circe.

With his mind at ease that he had a chance of survival, with no strength left, he collapsed onto the cold floor and waited peacefully as a slow fire began to spread in his veins. He felt pain bleeding into his muscles and sinking into his bones. His blood began to boil at the puncture site. His ears were ringing loudly enough that he wasn't sure if he was screaming. His body's magic began rejecting the poison and started it's systematic purge. And then, as if water was washing him into the abyss he dimly wondered how cold ice came to rest on his left forearm.

And then.

His eyes snapped open and instinct called him to quickly assess his surroundings. He was alone. The sun was rising to it's zenith. He was drenched in sweat... good. That means that the antidote worked. His cheek was resting in a puddle of his own vomit. He felt weaker than a newborn babe. There was ink dripping down his left forearm... his unblemished left forearm.

He slowly rose, taking into account the many aches and pains from his joints and cursed himself for waiting so long before administering himself the beozar. The floorboards beneath him creaked ominously. He was still bleeding from his neck but a blood replenisher and conjured gauze and tape discouraged continued flow. He wiped the specks of vomit from his face with the back of his hand and grimaced at the smell. He tilted his head back and breathed in crisp air mixed with mold and untouched dust and closed his eyes. He needs... he needs information.

What happened? Obviously the Dark Lord was vanquished by the Chosen One, but what else?

He held himself up with the window trims and felt his knees buckle.

Merlin, could he even apparate in this state? Spinner's End has never felt as far away as it has now.

He'll find a way, he always did.

Somehow.

Coughing, Severus Snape pushed himself through the entrance door and minded the splinters and loose floorboards. He held himself by his own two feet, took a deep shuddering breath, exited the Shrieking Shack, and wandered into the darkness.

_3_

_To he who once beared the name of Severus Tobias Snape_

_Little One,_

_We suppose that you did not expect us to ignore the mysterious appearance of one Nerva Prince, especially when it is known in our groups that your mother's maiden name is one of the same. We also suppose that you did not expect anonymity from us once you started your owl-catalog business. In fact, we are delighted that you would reach out to us, in your own unique way of not reaching out to us. Damocles, the man whom you are not fond of, was nearly besides himself at the news of your death._

_We will keep your secret but require that you keep in contact with us. No one would rather have a repeat of the unpleasant past, yes? How about a meeting of us and you? For old times sake, it'll be nice to see our son again. Fatmir said that you may visit him in Durmstrang: high praise from one Potions professor to another. Our gatherings had not been the same without your insubordinate causticity._

_We are glad you are once again contributing to the journals, magazines, and the greater intellectual community of Potioneers. Fear not. Your secret is safe with us._

_We also believe that it is high time you find yourself an apprentice._

_We raise our goblets to you,_

_Melissa Greengrass nee Montmorency_

_Potion Mistress: specialization in order Rosales_

_Official reincarnation of Maria Prophetissima of Pre-Reformation Era_

_Dual Head of the Eurasian Potions Guild_

A long, long time ago, back when he had a weekly contact with the Guild to assure them that the Dark Lord had not killed him yet, he found Greengrass too overbearing. Overbearing is describing it nicely, the right descriptive word might be dangerously motherly. Not in the Matron Weasley way, but in a way where if Bellatrix ever decided to be a good but psychotic aunt... She kept prodding him into subjugation telling him to "respect his betters," offering small snacks that were laced with poison and he had refused to answer to her orders and had all but curses her pretty little head into oblivion. She was the one to ingrain into him the habit of stuffing beozars into his pockets in case of small accidents. Those were the days.

Nicolas Flamel, the prior Head of the Guild, thought that the pair of them were très drôle.

Accordingly, Greengrass had not changed at all in all those years and (he will only admit it under three hours worth of Cruciatus) it will be amusing to verbally spar with her again and to meet up with his past colleagues. Tossing the letter in the fireplace, he wondered if the Guild politics were still the same. Somewhere in his body, there holds a fondness for the Guild, for they grow on you, like toadstools. Damocles and Fatmir seemed to be doing well and were the first to extend the offer an alliance when he was accepted into the prestigious group. There was no usurp of power save for the replacement for Flamel's death. Or as the letter said, the _dual_ Heads of the Guild, as if one person was not enough to fit into Flamel's notably big shoes.

He reread the last line of the letter. …_high time you find yourself an apprentice. _The notion made him laugh out loud. Apprentice? Must he find an apprentice from England? Who would be good enough for his standards? Will he have to choose from the dunderheads of Hogwarts? The notion made him shudder. Who will be able to work with a man of his temperament? Who will tolerate his acerbic humor? No one fits the narrow margin.

Well, no, not everyone was hopeless. Ravenclaw has always been a close second on his choices of favored houses because they experienced the same passion for the pursuit of knowledge as he. When they brew, above any other houses (even his own), they reminded him of himself. The students with potential turned into docile monks in meditation when they stood in front of their cauldron with their notebooks on the side, scrawling down every new revelation needed to make a potion better. He could sense minds racing, reaching ever higher to that specific unobtainable perfection.

Of any people outside of Ravenclaw and Slytherin with promise were Wayne Hopkins and Neville Longbottom. The latter was a surprise as his latent abilities were buried so deeply that one had to forcibly pull it out to reveal how talented the clumsy boy was. (The problem of teaching was trying to toe the line between encouragement and hard love: he might have, he admit, given the boy too much of the latter.)

Of all the students he had taught in his long and arduous career, he would say that there were perhaps four that he would have accepted as apprentices. The reasons why he couldn't accept the offers extended from his dual Light-Dark loyalties, and the expressed disapproval from Dumbledore. When the best of his students asked for him to guide them, he was careful to be uncharacteristically gentle when rebuffing them and giving them contacts to a couple of his fellow Potioneers with his letter of recommendation. And then he would proceed to drown himself in Fire Whiskey.

Having an apprentice is a symbol of pride: it shows that the master is good enough for recognition, that he is seen as a mentor by the younger generations, that the master's art will not be lost to the world, that the student will one day meet the expectations of the master, surpass the master and contribute to the world of intellectuals. It's as if having a true child of the mind, if not of matter. Those students of the past wanted Severus Snape. He desires for an apprentice but he's not Snape. Snape is dead. Snape has been dead for some time. Nerva Prince is an unknown in Magical Britain. He must remember that; it's too dangerous to forget.

He has a routine where he would stare into the mirror and repeat thirty times, "I am Nerva Prince."

He has a theory where he said it enough times, he might start believing it.

It hasn't worked yet.

_4_

When James Sirius Potter II was nearly four, he overhead a conversation between his father and his friends. Nobody had noticed his little body, lodged into a small cupboard underneath the stairs. From that spot, he had a clear view of everything (though everything would be a bit easier if mum hadn't taken away his Extendable Ear). There was some guilt involved: he knew that he was doing something his parents would frown upon, but the pride and thrill greatly outweighed the initial shame.

Harry Potter greeted his long time friends Hermione Weasley nee Granger and Ron Weasley in the foyer and guided them to the kitchen. "It's been too long, mate," Ron remarked, hanging up his coat and kicking off his shoes, "pity that we can't see Gin. Where are the Holyhead Harpies now?"

"Tallinn, Estonia," Harry absentmindedly said as he prepared the tea, "she'll be back home by tomorrow afternoon. James and Albus Severus really miss her."

"Severus... Urgh," Ron made a face, "Nothing can convince me otherwise that you ate something bad on the night Al was born. What made you call him Albus Severus? Really? Albus? Severus? Do you want him to be the laughing stock of all of Hogwarts? One after a dead headmaster and the other after the dead greasy git?" Hermione kicked him under the table, Ron winced but didn't let the topic go, "What did you do to make Gin agree?"

"Ginny already fell back asleep when the Naming Ceremony started." Harry shrugged as he levitated two small cups to his guests, "I told you before. I don't regret the name, Ron. Severus Snape is a hero who had taken years and years of his life to make up for his mistakes. I've already forgiven him."

"Only because he's dead. If he was alive, I bet it would be a different story," Ron sourly muttered.

Hermione smacked him over the head for his callousness, "Ronald Bilius Weasley!" she cried, "Please think before you open that mouth of yours! I'll have you know that Professor Snape received many accolades in the Wizarding World!"

"For what? Being a git?" Ron asked snidely, already prepping himself for another one of their arguments. "He's a professor of Hogwarts, Hermione, that's not a really big title."

"No! He's _Potion Master_ Snape!" Ron's deadpan expression did not change, "You don't get it do you?" Instantly, the witch deflated and rubbed her forehead, "Of course you wouldn't. Neither would you, Harry. Neither of you follow the scholarly world," She reached into her bag and dug out some worn out magazines. Harry leaned over and saw the proud title _Potions Monthly_ and inwardly groaned: only Hermione would bring this to the kitchen table. "I peruse them in my free time and I found some interesting facts. Right after his death, he appeared in the main article of one of the most prestigious journals in the world! Surely this must tell you something!"

Harry raised an eyebrow in consternation, "There are such things as Potion journals?" He rubbed the back of his neck. Well, it did make sense in a way since there was a muggle equivalent. He just never got around to thinking about it. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to scream in frustration.

"He. Is. Huge!" The witched jabbed the magazines with her wand in clear emphasis, "You don't get it, do you? Journeyman Potioneers around the world would give their first born child to see Snape working at a cauldron! It says in this page that Severus Snape was world renown for his incomparable, unequal finesse and technique as well as his revolutionary discoveries which furthered the advancement of reactions and kinetics between creature fluids and herbal extracts." Harry scanned an article and snorted at the third line: _He embodies an inhuman elegance, treating with care each of the ingredients so that they may provide optimization in performance for him in return._

"Why do we care, Mione?" Ron irritatedly cut her off, looking a bit green around the edges.

"Read this part! See? The Eurasian Potions Guild was furious when Dumbledore took Snape as a teacher. Not because of the teacher position but because he was too busy to keep in contact with the Guild! As soon as he stepped into Hogwarts, all of his research stopped pouring in. Think about it, Harry, if Albert Einstein stepped into an elementary school and suddenly lost all contact with the greater world, what would happen?" Harry made a noise in comprehension. Ron blinked.

"That's because he was working for Voldemort," Ron corrected Hermione.

"He was spying," Harry corrected Ron who was already ignoring him.

"Now that I think about it, I think I heard Mum once wish that she had Snape's skills. It's pretty weird hearing mum wax poetry about his hands. Reckoned I've never seen Bill that green before." Ron continued on, tugging his bottom lip in thought. "Hey, Mione. Isn't Potions the only mastery that you haven't gotten yet?"

Clearly his words hit a sore spot, Hermione bristled, "The standard is too high! It's not just memorization," she grudgingly admit, "It's a knack for the art. I guess that's why I have these journals here, I'm trying to find that spark that Professor Snape told me I lacked. You have to love it. _Vous devez l'aimer. _That's what the examiners told me anyways. They parroted Flamel's words right back at me: apparently it's the motto of the Guild."

"..._Flamel?_" Harry and Ron each did a double-take.

"He was the previous Head of the Guild, before he died." She added, catching the dark look on Harry's face, "History says that he founded the Guild and some claimed that he single-handedly made Potioneers a respectable career choice. It's not that far of a leap from Alchemy to Potions. It reminds me a bit of the muggle myth of how Isaac Newton was so bored of Arithmetic that he created Calculus. So the power over the Guild changed hands. Now there are two heads. One is from Laos and the other is from Britain. I know that the one from Britain is the reincarnation of Maria Prophetissima, founder of the distillation and sublimation techniques." An alchemist who died in 215 A.D., Binns had at least taught them that much.

"There can be reincarnations of people?" Ron doubted.

"Yes, though rarely is it documented since people need to remember their past selves and need to prove it in order to have it finalized." Hermione patiently answered after taking another sip of tea.

"Hmmm. You want us to sympathize with his unfortunate circumstances," Harry rested his elbows on the table and struggled to organize the information. "...I think," Harry mused, "that he was in Hogwarts because of me. His sole reason for his suffering is because of me. That's why he didn't reach his full potential: it's all my fault. Is that a self-centered thought?"

The room paused. Harry's eyes darted between his friends as if watching a tennis match if one of them so much as twitched. Ron wasn't in the mood to say anything and Hermione kept wringing her hands. "Don't think so." Hermione admitted after a long silence, "It seems reasonable."

_5_

They sat in the manor of one of the families lost to the passages of time. The window offered a view out to the edge of the mountains. The mahogany conference table was carved in a Baroque fashion. There were stuffed albino peacocks sitting on every corner with their heads high and with eyes replaced by rubies. On the opposite wall of the bay window sat an equally large portrait of naked, blonde nymphs splashing each other in the lake. Occasionally, they would break the fourth wall and giggle and wave to anyone they catch watching them. The Gothic candles gave the room a yellow atmosphere but the chandelier made the room look sharp. The Peverells were known for their eclectic tastes.

At the table sat the eight region heads of the Guild and the dual heads. Each of them wore robes swathed in black save for the back which bore the silver thread outline of the caduceus and the hood which was lined with runes stating the person's name, profession, rank, and specialization. At the end of the table sat Nerva Prince, fighting the urge to sneer in self-defense.

Melissa Greengrass sat languidly at the head of the table, tapping out a small rhythm on the table, with an unholy glee as she watched Sev- Nerva's left eyebrow begin to twitch. "Hello Little One," she cooed, "Did you get the small biscuits of love that we sent you a week back?"

Nerva Prince scoffed, "I fed them to a stray mutt, as I have always done, woman. Did you get the small batch of quiche that I sent back on the return owl?"

"They never tasted better." Greengrass drawled, twirling a length of blonde hair around her finger, "We fed some to Jacques and Fatmir and they said that you added too much cheese. You still haven't visited them, We're sure that will happen soon? Before you break their little hearts? But enough about pleasant gifts, no matter how much we would like to go onto that tangent like old times, we have other more important issues to discuss." She sighed and fanned herself with her hand, "The others here are very impatient, yes?" A small fact about Maria Prophetissima is that officially, she was reincarnated four times. In one of those lifetimes, she served in court as a muggle princess and picked up the habit of speaking first person plural. From her second reincarnation of a young girl in China, she had picked up the belief that abnormally long hair was a status of wealth and beauty: of everyone, only the Malfoy family followed her in that trend. In all of her reincarnations, she had never lost the perpetual wide-eyed look. Neither did her Lovegood descendants.

"Quite," A bald man in his fifties dryly said with a Russian accent. "I would be in your debt if we can finish this business within the hour." Nikolai Rusakov pushed out a thick file overfilling with papers, "The likelihood of that happening would be if a Malfoy ever managed to _weasel_ his way into our ranks." Several hooded people chuckled at the inside joke. Rusakov cleared his throat to bring back order, "Severus Snape... Nerva Prince. Relax boy, you can cut through diamond with that sort of tension in your body. We don't have the information of your whereabouts or your status except for the fact that you are hidden from the public and makes complex potions to anyone willing to pay."

People waited for his reply which sounded unusual, even in his own ears, "I have learned through many trials and errors that I prefer solitude."

"More so then the average man," A redhead murmured and then cursed in Arabic, making other members flinch, "We fear that you suffer from work consumption. In England, you make the potion. In Soviet Russia, the potion makes you."

Someone coughed. "Was that suppose to be funny, Hakim?" Greengrass mildly asked after a beat, picking at her nails.

"No but it was suppose to make a point. The moment Nerva Prince rose from sea foam and into the British ministry archives, he's been sending out papers after papers, discoveries after discoveries, as if he was frantically making up for lost time. His face is inhuman and I fear for the fall." Nerva Prince rolled his eyes at Hakim's typical melodramatics.

"Some of those discoveries were years old. I've never had the time to finalize some theories." Nerva Prince shrugged, "As for the pace, you should expect it, it hasn't changed since I've last seen you."

"As long as he abides by the equal amounts of fresh air as potion fumes, I don't think we have much to worry about." Rusakov let loose a belly-full of laughter and slammed his large palm against the wood, "I recall that huge backlog of research. To some extent, I believe that the Little One is doing it to spite us." No one contradicted him: he commanded that much respect from his peers. The Russian aimed a feral grin at his fellow Potioneers and allowed his eyes to be shadowed by his wild, black hair, "But now that he can spread his wings, I don't have the heart to tell him to slow. At least, not yet, not when he's clearly happy. Perhaps when you are happy, you can accept us as friends and we will accept and take our places besides you as your first true companions."

The accusation was still there and his non-existent social niceties were brought to the surface. Nikolai Rusakov was a man of cold, arrogant, Siberian pureblood with a dash of Neuri in their line. There was a legend surrounding his family, telling a tale where his ancestors assisted in the brewing projects of Baba Roga when muggle hunters had crippled her for a generation. With his background, he knew clearly the location of the line between derision and criticism. Rusakov's words weren't malicious enough to cause an automatic reaction of flinging insults with an atlatl but weren't so hidden as to stir hate within him. In fact, the utter modesty had trapped him in shock. Heat creeping up his collar and caressing his ears, Nerva Prince could feel splotches of color appearing on his face.

"Kolya," A snowy owl on his left clicked her beak, "Let's be simple about this." The bird turned towards Nerva and apologized, "Nikolai still has his tendencies. I will speak for both of us when I say that we hope the words don't offend."

"Engelstad? Were you idiotic enough to get stuck in your animagus form?" He asked incredulously.

The owl sighed and lifted a wing to her face, "Sorry that you must see me in this state, a harmless potions accident, I can assure you. It will wear off within the moon cycle, but until then." The owl gave an anthropomorphic shrug and preened, "I must add in my own two cents to the cause.

"You are family. We are the heads. We see ourselves as your parents, especially when you lack them. We've decided that you've ignored us for too long and we just want to know, to guard you, to help you, anything at all." Everyone else in the room murmured their agreements, each pair of eyes piercing into his soul, but each pair of eyes were warm, as if to say _welcome home. _"You may see yourself as the despondent, lonely man who sinned. We see a brother who is half ashamed that we are embarrassing to his image and half pleased that we are standing behind him. Do you understand?" Wind managed to sneak through the small cracks of the house, eliciting a howl through the entire manor. He saw the small flames on the candles faintly flickering, giving off a glow that gave each member of the Guild an alarming murderous look. But their eyes were all inviting: from Greengrass's patented 'Lovegood' look on one end of the table to the yellow eyes of Rusakov on the other.

The words of Kirsten Engelstad had hit a bit too close to home. He didn't move, fully aware of all the stares directed at him. This was a message that the Guild has been giving him since he had first graduated from Hogwarts, since he had started the long push and pull patterns of invites and rebuffs. He dimly realized how how much value his stubborn pride has over common sense.

"我觉的如果他不想要我们，那我们就别在试," someone scoffed, leaning back on the chair and twiddling his thumbs.

"We are an extended family, Chantha. We cannot stop." The owl cut off the speaker, "Secrets stay within us: that was part of the pact." Her words rang with power: her siren blood was beginning to show. The words sent goosebumps down his spine and other people in the room also shuddered from the impact. "We are special, we are better than the other disciplines because we love our subject unconditionally. We are people of influential and non-influential ties but we are all one of the same. You give us a name and then you give us another one but you are the same person. A name is just a name. Yes?" The owl turned its head to the side and surveyed the entire room.

After a moment of deliberation, he nodded once more.

The tension in the room dissipated.

"Thank you, Engelstad," Greengrass laughed and clapped her hands, "Little One, you have us and we won't let you run off again. But that isn't the here and now. We still have tasks to finish before sundown." She placed her palms on the desk and leaned over, "Let us begin."

_6_

Nerva is a man behind a curtain. To the general public, he is a man with no known family ties.

But he knows how to brew the potions known as the Mungo Five: Flesh-stitch, Essence of Dittany, Blood Replenishing, Skele-gro, and Wolfsbane, all at an unprecedented pace and still churning out cutting-edge discoveries like breathing air. There were rumors that he has an army of house elves which he specially trained to help him. There were rumors that the werewolf packs of all of Eurasia are in his debt. Truthfully, those rumors were all exaggerations: some of the Hogwarts house elves sneakily bonded to him as Headmaster and not to the castle in a bid to stay alive and now were happily preparing the ingredients for him and only one of the Alphas had visited him to personally thank him. He had pulled the Alpha aside and asked him not to visit him ever again, not that he had a thing against werewolves, but a childhood traumatic memory that he can do to live without. There were no hardships after that.

Potions was like learning the secrets to the universe. There were some mathematical parts of the science that past experimenters had only touched upon. His desk was littered with phase diagrams of different extracts and mixtures. He had papers and papers of calculations trying to pinpoint the correct properties of different solutions at different temperatures and then rewriting equations with more flexibility and chances for error margins as he tried to integrate the fact that there were outside elements that can still affect the effects of the finalized potion, no matter how good the stasis charm or the barrier spell was. He had found out that the copper apparent in any type of blood had the effects of reacting unfavorably with even the most mild acidic potions (Muggle university level textbooks had been one of the smartest investments he had made as a Journeyman Potioneer). He learned how fast one cuts ingredients, how fast and in which way one stirs the cauldron, inevitably gives kinetic energy that can be used to either further potion effects or cause the potential energy to convert and allow the whole concoction to explode. There was so much that he had discovered and so much that he had remiss.

He was single-handedly revolutionizing the art of Potions itself.

And the accomplishment did not go unnoticed.

When he is in the privacy of his quarters, in a house sitting on a lonely road halfway between Gloucester and the Forest of Dean, he deflates and sinks into his bed, willing it to swallow him and spit him out into a world where he doesn't exist. The world wouldn't let him stay behind a curtain for long but he would be damned if he showed his face to the public.

He receives daily letters from newspapers and prominent families. The reporters, who merely wanted interviews, weren't as bad as the families and their all-important coat of arms. He had long prepped himself for the inevitable effects of pureblood curiosity, a factor that was always a hindrance to his studies at all points in his life. Lucius Malfoy was the worst of them when he was in Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy was quickly replacing his father in that matter. There were others. Augustus Longbottom had sent out her inquiries and a plead for assistance to help her grandson start his budding genetic chimeric plant business. Neville Longbottom sent out a letter soon after apologizing for his grandmother's behavior. Cecelia Avery's invites for dinner has one too many snide hints of a certain Hogwarts Potions professor for him to relax his guard. The worst was with Shaklebolt's election to Minister, the Wizengamot had once again split evenly on both sides of the Traditionalists and the Liberalists. The Traditionalists, holding most of the pureblood families, had once again sought out his identity. But this time, he managed to ignore the metaphorical questing fingers and burned their letters immediately upon receiving them. As the ashes from the parchment rose into his chimney, the fire whispered the words inked out on paper like muffled Howlers.

_What are your political backings? _

_Do you have patrons? _

_Who do you support? _

_What is your history? _

_What side do you align with? _

_From whence did you come from?_

_Who are you?_

Nerva Prince ignored everything. In fact, it can be said that he has a mastery in Ignoring and he takes an unholy amount of glee imagining the way perfect pureblood faces twist in displeasure of when things do not go their way.

He has learned in his stay that the secret to life was to appreciate the small things.

The Guild had asked him once in the yearly gatherings _what had kept you sane_? There was a moment, years back, where he had stopped swirling the dark rich wine in his glass and contemplated his life. He can recall the ever present horrid, disgusting feeling like a dark taint in his head whenever he walked down the halls of his old school of horrid memories, knowing that he was forced to stay, that he was serving two lords of polar sides at war, that the only thing he had to look forward to was more years chained to Hogwarts, Azkaban, or death. He was not a man to be chained and yet he was with double the efforts. There was not much of a life to behold.

Nerva Prince had fallen silent at the question as he reminisced the truth. "Yes," He tested the word on his mouth, it tasted of weakness and confession, "My life has been hard. From my childhood of my disappointment of a family to where I am now and everything in between. From the Marauders I endured years of humiliation without reprieve. No one stood up for me save for one muggleborn and no one cared. No one stopped it until I decided to join the Dark Lord. And the Dark Lord made everything hurt and the worst aspect was it was uncontrollable. With his second rise, we all lived in fear of not living the next day. It was the fear of unpredictability and a mad lord. The mad lord rose and we all feared. The torment changed again when I stepped back into Hogwarts: continuous memories assaulted me every time I looked at Potter and the inequality between houses and how ignorant everyone was to our plight as snakes. Now I know that there are other things besides pettiness. But at the time, the favoritism was too blatant, the teachers were all the same. _Nothing changed. I had no one._

"Do you comprehend?" Severus Snape clenched his head and rubbed his temples, still deep in his memories, "With the first rise and the second rise of the Dark Lord, nothing changed. I stared at the battlefield from both sides and saw the ineptitude of any source of hope that we had. Between my first stay and second stay in Hogwarts I saw the same pedestal that Gryffindor stood on as other people hexed my housemates under pretenses of being Dark. And there were times, I admit, where I surprised myself of getting up from wherever I laid. There were times when I checked to make sure that I was still alive as there were times when it got hard to tell. I have long decided that pain does not allow you to live. I had long grown used to the existence of a half-death.

"But, there were those days where I appreciated the small things," He tilted his head back and stared wistfully off into space, all of his frown lines from his face vanished with his peace, "Sometimes I couldn't sleep all night and I'll walk outside alone and watch the sunrise. The best ones were right after a night-storm where the clouds framed the rising sun with the warmest colors I've ever seen."

The room was silent.

"And yet, nothing can dominate my love of standing over a cauldron and being at peace, knowing that my hands can move without me consciously directing them. It's my way of clearing my mind. It's a comfort, do you understand?"

The room understands.

It's always the small things.

_7_

_Nerva,_

_My name is James Sirius Potter II. _

_I am a seventh year student of Hogwarts._

_I ask for the honor of becoming your apprentice._

Attached to the owl was a small vial of clear liquid... basilisk venom. It was one of the best offerings that he had ever received in his life. Where on earth the child can even begin to find a basilisk... well, he would rather not dwell on the thought.

The note was written in shorthand, classic supplication method. There was a resume in thick paper hidden in the envelop with two teacher recommendations: one from Flitwick and the other from Slughorn. How in the world of Merlin did a spawn of Potter decide to become as good in Potions to ask for permission to give away years of his life to further learning? In general, Potters were known more for their physical prowess, not mental abilities. He was surprised that the Chosen One hadn't deterred his first born from the discipline for surely he must have told his children the stories of "the Greasy Bat that lives in the dungeons" and how horrendously ugly you would become if you become a Potion Master. Neither Flitwick nor Slughorn were the types to give such glowing reviews of the student if they hadn't seen that spark within them, especially Slughorn, _especially _in Potions.

He discretely sniffed the original parchment. It was high quality. He noted that the writing had small dots and blots surrounding it like ants. He imagined a miniaturized Potter fretting before he allowed an owl to take the letter. He imagined the miniaturized Potter to have worked tirelessly like many of the other students that he had unofficially taken under his wing over the years. He imagined the miniaturized Potter running a hand through his hair in a Potter fashion only to have it slick to the back like a Malfoy: it was a common side effect of working with fumes of medical potions. It was very hard to envision. Potter working on Potions was about as likely at Granger joining a professional Quidditch team. And with his good luck, James Sirius probably takes after his father and grandfather in looks. And with his bad luck, James Sirius probably takes after his namesake in personality.

Stop.

He hasn't even met the boy yet. There's no need to jump to conclusions.

Here are the cold hard facts. James Sirius asked for an apprenticeship. He has two respectable men backing his reputation. He is of age and should know how an apprenticeship works: three years of complete subjugation to his commands and three years of relearning independence. Apprenticeships are not to be laughed at like childhood pranks nor can they just be thrown to the side and disregarded like a temporarily interesting folly.

He paced the small room of his study. There were no portraits of him in Hogwarts: his one and only had been burned by the students in rebellion when they forced him to flee, right before the final battle of Hogwarts. Any other visual document of his was when he was a young boy. People change in appearance over time: he was no different. The chances of him getting attacked by someone who knows Legilimency are slim. It's pretty simple to put in the contract a note to forbid the apprentice to share his memories.

Nerva Prince will have to ascertain the boy... (Merlin, he's seventeen!) man's skill through a test.

When he was still young Severus Snape, he had stood before five cauldrons and a myriad of ingredients. His mentor told him to use the same ingredients but make five different potions: one to cure headaches, one to loosen joint pain, one to explode upon contact with blood, and one to act as a slow poison that would kill a person within a day, and one to cause the accelerated growth of skin. Severus Snape had succeeded after two days: he will allot the same amount of time to James Sirius. There's a possibility that the young man isn't talented enough, but at least he'll have a fair chance.

James Sirius _Potter_ II...

He is the first born son of Harry James Potter.

A name is merely a name. Hasn't life taught him that?

Smiling slightly, Nerva Prince begins to pen a reply as he summoned a treat for the owl.

_Epilogue_

A name is merely a name.

Even if he doesn't succeed, James Sirius Potter represents his high hopes for a future.

But it'll be a cold day in hell when he meets the parents.

Because he sees no reason in showing his face to either one of the parents. Because they are the past. That was it. Pure and simple.

And maybe the Weasley girl will be hurt because she didn't have the chance to apologize after learning that he had kept her from the worst of what the Carrows could be. She had spat into his face many times after he managed to pry off the brother Carrow from her failing body. But he won't care.

And maybe Harry will be hurt because he once again was reminded of the fact that he can't know everything that is not about him. The brat wasn't so much his father as he was his mother, but wasn't so much as his mother as a bitter memory of his imprisonment at Hogwarts and his dual spying for both the light and dark sides, hated by both.

But James Sirius is a name and a name is only a name unless you want it to be otherwise.

There is no reason for history to repeat itself.

He has learned his lesson.

And that is why, two days after the administered test, when Nerva Prince takes long strides down a shaded road through a grove of ash to visit the Peverell grounds where the Guild dwelled, James Sirius Potter dogs his heels.


End file.
